^, 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


k 


A 


{./ 


^  .^. 


4^ 


V. 


u.. 


1.0 


11.25 


MM 

U    il.6 


V^ 


'm 


*V.y 


^> 


Photographic 

Sciences 
Corporation 


s. 


■^ 


iV 


^^ 


\\ 


fv 


c> 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  M580 

(716)  872-4503 


«,' 


j!;^. 


CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHM/ICIVIH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  /  Institut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historiques 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes/Notes  techniques  et  bibliographiques 


The  Institute  has  attempted  to  obtain  the  best 
original  copy  available  for  filming.  Features  of  this 
copy  which  may  be  bibliographically  unique, 
which  may  alter  any  of  the  images  in  the 
reproduction,  or  which  may  significantly  change 
the  usual  method  of  filming,  are  checked  below. 


n 


D 


n 


D 
D 


Q 


D 


Coloured  covers/ 
Couverture  de  couieur 


I      I    Covers  damaged/ 


Couverture  endommagie 


Covers  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Couverture  restaurde  et/ou  pelliculde 


I      I    Cover  title  missing/ 


Le  titre  de  couverture  manque 


I      I    Coloured  maps/ 


Cartes  gdographiques  en  couieur 

Coloured  ink  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)/ 
Encre  de  couieur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 


I      I    Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations/ 


Planches  et/ou  illustrations  en  couieur 

Bound  with  other  material/ 
Reli6  avec  d'autres  documents 

Tiyht  binding  may  cause  shadows  or  distortion 
along  interior  margin/ 

Lareliure  serr^e  peut  causer  de  I'ombre  ou.de  la 
distortion  le  long  de  la  marge  intirieure 

Blank  leaves  added  during  restoration  may 
appear  within  the  text.  Whenever  possible,  these 
have  been  omitted  from  filming/ 
II  se  peut  que  certaines  pages  blanches  ajouties 
lors  d'une  restauration  apparaissent  dans  ie  texte, 
mais,  lorsque  cela  6tait  possible,  ces  pages  n'ont 
pas  it6  film6es. 

Additional  comments:/ 
Commentaires  suppl6mentaires; 


The( 
to  thi 


L'institut  a  microfilm^  le  meilleur  exemplaire 
qu'll  lui  a  6t6  possible  de  se  procurer.  Les  details 
de  cet  exemplaire  qui  sont  peut-Atre  uniques  du 
point  de  vue  bibliographique,  qui  peuvent  modifier 
une  image  reproduite,  ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une 
modification  dans  la  methods  normale  da  filmage 
sont  indiquis  ci-dessous. 


I      I   Coloured  pages/ 


\/ 


1/ 


D 


Pages  de  couieur 

Pages  damaged/ 
Pages  endommag6es 

Pages  restored  and/oi 

Pages  restaurdes  et/ou  pelliculdes 


I      I    Pages  damaged/ 

I      I    Pages  restored  and/or  laminated/ 


The  I 
possi 
of  th 
filmii 


Origi 

begii 

theli 

sion, 

othei 

first 

sion, 

or  ill! 


Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 
Pages  d^color^es,  tachetdes  ou  piqu6es 


□Pages  detached/ 
Pages  ddtachdes 


Showthrough/ 
Transparence 


I      I    Quality  of  print  varies/ 


Qualitd  in^gaie  de  I'impression 

includes  supplementary  material/ 
Comprend  du  matdriel  suppldmentaire 

Only  edition  available/ 
Seule  Edition  disponible 


The  I 
shall 
TINU 
whic 

Map) 
diffei 
entir 
begii 
right 
requ 
mett 


Pages  wholly  or  partial!./  obscured  by  errata 
slips,  tissues,  etc.,  have  been  ref limed  to 
ensure  the  best  possible  image/ 
Les  pages  totalement  oj  partiellement 
obscurcies  par  un  feuillat  d'errata,  une  pelure, 
etc..  ont  6t6  fiim^es  d  nouveau  de  fapon  d 
obtenir  la  meilleure  image  possible. 


This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Ce  document  est  fiim6  au  taux  de  reduction  indiqu6  ci-dessous. 


10X 

14X 

18X 

22X 

26X 

30X 

V 

□ 

12X 


16X 


20X 


24X 


28X 


32X 


The  copy  filmed  here  has  been  reproduced  thanks 
to  the  generosity  of: 

MacOdrum  Library 
Carieton  Univenity 

The  images  appearing  here  are  the  best  quality 
possible  considering  the  condition  and  legibility 
of  the  original  copy  and  in  iceeping  with  the 
filming  contract  specifications. 


Original  copies  in  printed  paper  covers  are  filmed 
beginning  with  the  front  cover  and  ending  on 
the  last  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, or  the  bacit  cover  when  appropriate.  All 
other  original  copies  are  filmed  beginning  on  the 
first  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, and  ending  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  illustrated  impression. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol  ^»>  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  the  symbol  V  (meaning  "END"), 
whichever  aptjiies. 

Maps,  plates,  charts,  etc.,  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


L'exempiaire  filmd  fut  reproduit  grAce  A  la 
gAnArositi  de: 

MacOdrum  Library 
Carieton  University 

Les  images  suivantes  ont  4t6  reproduites  avec  le 
plus  grand  soin,  compte  tenu  de  la  condition  at 
de  la  nettetA  de  l'exempiaire  film6,  et  en 
conformity  avec  les  conditions  du  contrat  db 
filmage. 

Les  exemplaires  originaux  dont  la  couverture  en 
papier  est  imprimte  sont  filmte  en  commenpant 
par  le  premier  plat  et  en  terminant  soit  par  la 
derniire  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration,  soit  par  le  second 
plat,  salon  le  cas.  Tous  les  autres  exemplaires 
originaux  sont  fiimte  en  commen^ant  par  la 
premidre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration  et  en  terminant  par 
la  dernlAre  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 

Un  des  symboies  suivants  apparaftra  sur  la 
derniAre  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le 
cas:  le  symbols  — »-  signifie  "A  SUIVRE".  le 
symbols  V  signifie  "FIN". 

Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  dtre 
fiimds  d  des  taux  de  reduction  diff6rents. 
Lorsque  le  document  sst  trop  grand  pour  b^ra 
reproduit  en  un  seui  clich6,  il  est  fiim6  d  partir 
de  I'angle  sup6rieur  gauche,  de  gauche  i  droite, 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  nAcessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  mAthode. 


t 

t 

3 

32X 


■i 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

1 


POPULAR  NOVELS 

BY  MAY  AGNES  FLEMING. 


t^-Omr  BARLSCOURTS  WIPB. 

•^A  WONDERFUL  WOMAN. 

V-A  TERRIBLE  SECRET. 

4«>NORINE'S  REVENGE. 

f.~A  MAD  MARRUGE. 

C-ONB  NIGHT'S  MYSTERY. 

y^-KATB  DANTON. 

•.-SILENT  AND  TRUE. 

t^HEIR  OP  CHARLTON. 

••.-CARRIED  BY  STORM. 

Sb-LOST  FOR  A  WOMAN. 

at.->A  WIFE'S  TRAGEDY. 

IS.-A  CHANGED  HEART. 

S«^PRIDB  AND  PASSION. 

I»-SHARING  HER  CRIME. 

afi^A  WRONGED  WIFE. 

lf.-MAUDB  PERCY'S  SECRET. 

A-THE  ACTRESS*  DAUGHTER. 

S».~THB  QUEEN  OF  THE  ISLE.  ^ 

M.-THE  MIDNIGHT  QUEEN.   ' 

•I.-CDITH  PERCIVAL. 

M^WEDDBD  FOR  PIQUE. 

it—A  FATEFUL  ABDUCTION. 

•«.— THE  SISTERS  OF  TORWOOD. 

HlBlaff's  itoriet  are  growing  more  and  woan 
MkMations  of  cLaracter,  Uf c-like 

▼arylng  scenes,  and  deeply  intereaUaf  Dlots, 
in  the  vcfjr  fint  rank  of  Moden 


i 


im  cMk,  Arte  $i.OQ  met,  sai 

a  W.  DILUNQHAM  COMPANY,  PiMMiers, 

NBW  YORK. 


h 


t- 


ill 


K 


THE 


HEIR  OF   CHARLTON./ 


9>  i«VfL 


t^3S 


MAY   AGNES    FLEMING, 

ACTHOK  or 

'*Vn  BAMLSCOiniT's  WIFE.*'    *•  A  WONDEAFUL  WOMAN,"    "A  TBIUBUI 
r,"      **NORINX'S     KSVXNGE,"      "A     MAD    MA&UAOI^** 
••««    mOKV*!    MTtTIKV,'*    BTC 


(I 


'Sh*  b  IM  low  for  a  hlgn  pniae,  t»i  bcown  for  a  fair  pnim,  lad  loo  link,  far  • 
^mt  imlM :  only  diii  cooumd  .Mloa  I  out  aUbrd  hor— duu  wen  ahc  otbftf  (hn  dM  i% 
"— Moat  Abo  About  Nothino. 


'&. 


NEW   YORK: 

C     IV,   Dillingham     Co,,    Publishers. 


tSomaoKT^  1676.  Bv 
W.  CARLETON  &  Ctib 


CONTENTS 


I.- 

II.- 

III.- 

IV.- 

v.~ 

VI.- 

VII.- 

VIII.- 

IX.- 

X.- 

XI.- 

XII.- 

XIII.- 

XIV.- 

XV.- 

XVI.- 

XVII.- 

XVIIL- 

XIX.- 

XX.- 

XXI.- 

XXII.- 


PABT    FIRST. 

-Shaddeck  Light 7 

-Charlton  Place < IS 

A  Fairy  Tale c ti 

-A  Man's  Letter 97 

-Before  Breakfast 34 

-After  Breakfast 44 

-In  the  Cool  of  the  Evening 55 

■By  the  Light  of  the  Moon 66 

-How  the  Game  was  Made 76 

-The  End  of  the  Fairy  Tale 85 

-Shaddeck  Light '04 

-An  Evening  at  Shaddeck  Light 115 

-A  Night  at  Shaddeck  Light 193 

-A  Morning  at  Shaddeck  Light 131 

-Captain  Dick's  Wooing 139 

-How  Dora  Does  It 148 

-A  Girl's  Letter 157 

-The  Days  Before 167 

-Captain  Dick's  Wedding 189 

-Post-Nuptial 194 

-"  The  Girl  I  Left  behind  Me." to6 

-"  When  Day  is  Done." 917 


coiinrENrs. 


PART    SECOND. 

I. — ^Vera. flt4 

II. — ^A  Look  Behind •  934 

III.—**  Love  Took  up  the  Glass  of  Time." 94a 

IV. —At  Dawn  of  Day 958 

V. — ^A  Summer  Afternoon 970 

VI. — A  Summer  Night 989 

VII.—"  We  Fell  Out,  My  Wife  and  I." 995 

VIII.—"  O,  We  FcU  Out,  I  Know  not  Why." 305 

IX.— Charlton  Place 311 

X. — Husband  and  Wile «...  395 

XI.— A  Cry  in  the  Night 339 

XII.— In  the  Dead  Hand. 350 

XIII.— In  the  Dark  Hour 36a 

XI v.— Tracked 374 

XV.— Trapped. 383 

XVi.— Shaddeck  Ligbt....   , ffi 


«34 
a4a 

358 

970 
tSa 

<95 
305 
3" 
3*5 
339 
350 
36a 

374 
38J 


r//£   //£//?   ^f  CHARLTON. 

21  dtorg  of  Sl)atrlreck  Ct0t)t 


PART    I. 

**  She  U  too  low  Cor  a  high  praise,  too  brown  for  a  (air  praise,  and  too  U'.tie  far  a  { 
;  only  diit  commendation  I  can  afford  her— that  were  the  odier  tluui  sh*  b,  iht 
onbandMnM.'*— Much  Ado  about  Nothiho. 


CHAPTER  I. 


SHADDECK  LIGHT. 


|T  is  very  hot  even  for  a  July  afternoon,  and  he  hai 
walked — if  his  lazy,  graceful  saunter  can  be  called 
walking — fully  two  miles  ;  so,  coming  upon  a  green 
spot,  he  throws  himself  down  in  the  warm,  sea-scented  grass, 
pulls  his  hat  over  his  eyes,  and  prepares  to  think  it  out.  It 
is  a  good  place  for  introspection ;  not  a  living  thing  any- 
where, except  now  and  then,  a  whirring  seagull.  At  his  feet 
a  long  stretch  of  silver-gray  shore  and  sand  dunes,  beyond, 
antil  lost  in  the  sky  line,  blue,  limpid,  lovely,  sunlit,  treacher* 
9US,  the  sea. 

"  She  won't  like  it,  that  is  a  certainty  to  begin  with  ; '  so 
ran  his  musings.  *'  And  if  her  mother  finds  it  out,  she  will 
raise  the  devil  She  is  a  personal  friend  of  his  infernal  ma 
jesty,  and  raising  him  is  t'  ;  principal  amusement  of  her  life. 
I  suppose  it  is  in  accordance  with  the  eternal  fitness  of 


SHADDECK  UGHT. 


tfiiiig%  diat  tht  more  charming  a  girl  i%  tb«  man  ittttl^ 
detestable  her  mother  must  be.** 

He  raises  himself  to  shy  a  pebble  at  a  sand-martin,  hop- 
ping near.  He  is  a  slender,  well-dressed,  well-looking  young 
fellow,  blonde  as  to  hair  and  complexion,  and  wearing,  quite 
honestly  and  naturally,  the  listless  look  of  a  man  bored  habitu 
ally  by  this  wicked  world,  and  the  people  in  it. 

''  Let  us  see  what  she  says."  He  pulls  out  a  letter,  after 
lome  search — a  lady's  letter,  long,  crossed,  and  in  the  usual 
angular  hand.  "  *  We  leave  on  Tuesday  next  for  the  Noith,' 
yes,  yes.  '  Mother  is  delighted  ; '  of  course  she  is,  mercenary 
old  screw.  '  Mr.  Charlton  speaks  of  his  son,  step-son  rather,' 
hang  Mr.  Charlton's  step-son.  '  You  must  on  no  account  fol- 
low me  here.'  Oh,  but  that's  precious  nonsense,  you  know, 
and  after  eight  months'  separation,  and  St.  Ann's  not  three 
hours'  ride  from  New  York,  and  as  good  a  place  as  any 
other  to  kill — "  a  great  yawn  cuts  short  the  soliloquy,  and 
exhausted  by  so  much  mental  effort,  the  thinker  closes  his 
eyes,  and,  lulled  by  the  warmth  and  the  wash  of  the  tide, 
lapses  into  gentle  slumber. 

He  sleeps  about  half  an  hour,  then  he  opens  his  eyes  and 
looks  about  him.  Presently  his  drowsy  glance  changes  to  a 
■tare  ;  he  sits  suddenly  erect,  struck  by  a  peculiarity  in  the 
view. 

During  his  brief  "  forty  winks,"  a  little  island,  about  half  a 
mile  off,  has  changed  as  if  by  magic  into  a  peninsula.  No 
magic  has  been  at  work,  however ;  the  tide  is  on  the  ebb 
and  has  dropped  away  from  the  rocky  bar  that  connects  it 
with  the  shore.  On  the  small  island  stands  a  small  house, 
and  how  the  house  comes  to  be  thee  would  surpiise  him  a 
little  if  it  were  not  too  warm  to  wonder  about  anything 
He  half  rises,  with  the  momentary  intention  of  testing  the 
solidity  of  this  new  path  which  has  risen  like  Aphrodite  out 
of  the  ocean.  But  it  is  still  sultry,  and  the  sea-weed  will 
probably  wet  his  feet,  and  it  is  not  worth  while;  so  he 


SHADDBCK  LIGHT, 


ilfa 
No 
ibb 
it 


i 


h« 


jawns  again,  and  settles  back  on  the  grass.  Come  *o  think 
of  it,  how  few  things  are  worth  while  in  this  world.  Even 
this  trip  of  his  down  from  the  mountains,  although  thr 
mountains  in  themselves  are  a  delusion  and  a  weaimess — is 
it  not  a  mistake  ?  It  will  be  pleasant  to  see  his  fan-  cone> 
•pondent,  doubly  pleasant  to  outwit  her  mother,  trebly  pleAi 
ant  to  do  something  clandestine  and  wrong  ;  but,  aftei 
all 

The  door  of  the  small  house  on  the  islet  opens,  and  a  figure 
comes  slipping  and  shambling  over  the  rocks.  He  breaks 
off  his  train  of  thought  to  watch,  with  the  same  listless  glance 
his  handsome  blue  eyes  casts  upon  everything,  this  ungainly 
new-comer.  He  draws  ppArer  and  stands  disclosed — a  long, 
lank,  tow-headed,  ill-favored,  half-witted  hobbledehoy.  He 
Glares  stolidly  for  a  moment  out  of  a  pair  of  **  boiled  eyes  " 
at  the  gracefully  indolent  figure  on  the  grass,  then  is  shuffling 
on  his  way,  when  he  finds  himself  accosted. 

"  I  say  !  stop  a  moment.  What  do  you  call  that  ?"  He 
nods  lazily  towards  the  solitary  cottage  on  the  rocks,  without 
moving.  "It  has  a  name,  I  suppose,  and  a  use.  What 
may  they  be  ?  " 

"That  air,"  the  lean  youth  responds  in  a  nasal  drawl, 
"that  air  is  Shaddeck  Light." 

"  What  ?  " 

**  Shaddeck  Light.     Can't  ye  hear,  mister  ?  " 

**  Do  you  iuean  it  is  a  light-house — that  you  live  here  and 
keep  it  ?  " 

He  has  no  particular  object  in  putting  these  queitioni 
beyond  the  one  object  of  his  life,  to  kill  his  great  enemy, 
time. 

"  Mostly,  DOSS  ;  me  an*  tne  cap'n,  when  he's  to  hum." 

"  Who  IS  the  captain  ?  " 

A  light  comes  into  the  dull  eyes,  a  Sash  of  intelligence  into 
tbe  stolid  face. 

"  Reckon  you're  a  stranger  reound  here,  mister,  or  jroa 


10 


SHADDSCK  LVHT, 


wouldn't  ask  that  Captain  Dick,  I  guest  there  tint  vqmxlj 
folks  reound  Shaddeck  Bay  don't  know  Cap'n  Dick 
Ffrcnch." 

Up  to  this  point  the  questions  have  been  asked  with  lan- 
guid inkliflference.     But  as  this  name  is  uttered  the  young 
man  sits  erect,  and  his  blue  eyes  kindle  into  swift  eager  in 
tcreit 

"  Ffrench  ?"  he  repeats,  sharply — **  Captain  Ffrench  ?— 
•on  and  heir  of  Mr.  Robert  Charlton  ?  " 

**  Wall,  I  reckon,  mister,  that's  abeout  it." 

The  interrogator  pushes  up  his  wide-awake,  and  takes  a 
long  stare  at  his  companion. 

**  And  you — you're  Mr.  Richard  Ffrench,  otherwise  Cap- 
tain Dick's  factot'i'n,  I  suppose  ?  Like  master,  like  man. 
Is  Captain  Dick  tdere  now,  and  at  home  to  callers  ?  '* 

He  does  not  wait  for  an  answer,  but  rises  to  his  leet, 
flings  some  loose  change  to  the  lank  lad,  and  starts  at  once 
ior  the  bar. 

"  Dumed  if  he  ain't  goin,' "  the  youth  remarks.  "  Won't  he 
spoil  them  swell  boots  though  !  City  chap  with  store 
clothes.    I  see  him  yes'day  a  loafm'  reound  the  hotel." 

He  picks  up  the  pennies — the  backsheesh  is  by  no  meacis 
princely — and  plods  along  towards  the  town. 

The  shiny  boots  have  reached  the  bar  and  pick  their  way 
I'.ghtly  and  carefully  over  sand,  and  sea-weed,  and  slippery 
roclc  It  requires  some  care  to  avoid  stumbles  and  wet 
feet ;  but  he  does  both,  and  stands,  at  the  end  of  fifteen 
minutes,  on  the  grassy  slope  of  the  little  islet,  upon  which 
the  small  gray  house  perches  solitary  and  wind-beaten,  a 
mark  for  blistering  summer  suns,  and  beating  wintry  lains. 
It  possesses  two  windows  like  port-holes,  and  a  door ;  all 
three  hospitably  open  to  the  cool  and  fresh  sea-breeze.  On 
the  threshold  he  pauses.  He  sees  a  small  room,  tke  board 
floor  scrubbed  to  spotless  white,  the  walls  glittering  witb 
whitewash,  two  or  three  easy-chairs,  a  com^nrtablelooking 


SHADDECK  LIGHT, 


lounge,  t  table  littered  with  books,  maps,  manuscripts,  lew*' 
papers,  pens,  pencils,  and  bristol -board,  and  sitting  sunong 
the  literary  chaos,  his  back  to  the  door,  reading  and  siuok 
ing,  a  man. 

"  If  that  is  you.  Daddy,"  he  says  without  turning  rouiul, 
•*  I  will  break  your  neck  if  you  come  in." 

"  It  isn't  Daddy,"  answers  a  quiet  voice.  "  I  8utii>ect  i 
waylaid  Daddy  about  twenty  minutes  ago.  and  wrung  from 
him  the  information  thr.t  the  master  of  this  hermitage  was  at 
home.  Idleness — the  parent  of  all  evil — suggested  I  should 
come.  I  have  the  pleasure,  I  think,  of  apologizing  to  Cap* 
tain  Dick." 

He  takes  o£f  his  hat,  and  still  with  his  afternoon  languoi 
upon  him,  leans  against  the  door-post.  The  strong  salt  sea* 
wind  stirs  his  fair  hair  which  he  wears  rather  long,  a  strong 
contrast  in  that  respect  to  the  gentleman  he  addresses,  who 
is  cropped  within  an  inch  of  his  well-shaped  head.  Indeed 
they  are  a  contrast  in  other  respects,  for  '*  Captain  Dick/' 
turning  squarely  round  in  surprise,  rises,  takes  out  his  pipe 
and  stands,  a  tall,  broad-shouldered,  sunburned  young  man, 
with  a  pair  of  fine  gray  eyes,  under  black,  resolute  brows, 
mind  and  muscle,  brain  and  body,  evidently  equally  well 
developed — quite  unlike  the  slender,  elegant,  city  stamped 
iadividtial  he  confronts. 

"  Perhaps  I  ought  to  have  sent  my  card  by  Daddy,  with  a 
request  for  permission,  as  one  does  when  one  visits  a  show 
place  abroad,"  suggests  the  stranger,  plaintively.  **  I  really 
fear  I  intrude.  You  were  reading,  1  perceive.  I  am  Er^ej^ 
Dane,  trying  to  kill  the  dog-days,  down  here  by  the  sad  sea 
waves,  and  finding  it  consumedly  slow.  Most  things  art 
consumedly  slow,  if  you  observe.  Don't  let  me  interrupt; 
it  isn't  worth  while.  Being  an  inveterately  lazy  dog  myselij 
I  have  the  profoundeet  admiration  for  industry  in  otherti 
We  will  meet  again,  I  daresay.  1  stop  at  thr  St.  Ann'ft 
Lntil  Lhenr 


MB 


SHADDECr  LIGHT, 


He  replaces  his  panama  and  is  turning  to  go,  tut  Ctptaif 
Dick  interferes. 

''  No,  no  ; "  he  says,  laughing.  *'  Visitors  are  nre  birds  in 
my  rock-bound  retreat,  and  to  be  treated  as  such.  There  if 
no  hurry  as  far  as  the  tide  is  concerned,  and,  like  the  tide, 
my  industry  is  on  the  ebb.     May  I  offer  you  a  cigar  ?  " 

"Thanks,  no  ;  I  don't  smoke.  Curious  little  den  this  ol 
youis,  but  a  capital  place  for  hard  cramming,  I  should  say 
You  have  rather  the  look  of  a  hard  thinker,  by  the  by. 
Never  think  myself,  if  I  can  help  it — one  of  my  fixed  prin 
ciples.  Wears  a  man  out,  I  find,  and  there's  nothing  in  life 
worth  wearing  out  about.  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  live 
here  ?  " 

"  Not  exactly,  but  most  of  my  days,  oflf  and  on,  I  spend 
in  this  shanty  when  I  am  down  in  these  parts." 

"  Ah  I  not  your  nights,  then.  That  must  be  a  relief  tc 
your  anxious  relatives." 

**  My  nights,  as  often  as  not,  I  spend  drifting  about  the 
bay  with  my  friends  the  fisher-folk  ; "  responds  the  captain, 
good-humoredly.  "  I  am  an  amphibious  animal,  I  suppose  ; 
I  thrive  best  in  salt  water." 

Mr.  Ernest  Dane  regards  him  with  languid  interest 

"Your  days  in  study — Spanish,  I  perceive — and  your 
nights  in  fishing.  You  never  sleep  if  you  can  help  it,  I  pre^ 
•ume.  But  don't  you  find  the  everlasting  swish-swash  of  the 
•(*&,  down  there  in  the  rocks,  rather  maddening  ?  *  What 
are  the  wild  waves  saying  ? '  and  so  on,  something  of  a  draw- 
back to  close  application  ? ' ' 

**  I  never  hear  it,"  answers  Captain  Ffrench.  "  With  my 
pipe  and  my  traps  here,  and  my  solitude,  you  behold  in  me, 
Mi.  Dane,  that  rara  avis,  a  perfectly  happy  man." 

He  stoops  to  gather  up  a  quantity  of  papers  and  memo 
larxla  that  have  fallen,  and  replaces  thein  with  care.  Older 
enters  largely  into  the  phrenological  development  of  the 
student  of  Spanish,  as  may  be  noted  by  the  perfect  neatnesf 


SBADDECK  UQHT. 


n 


tide, 


of  everything  in  the  bar<;  little  room.  As  he  assoits  lii 
papers,  his  visitor  rises  and  crosses  suddenly  t  j  the  chimney* 
piece,  over  wliich  hangs  tiie  only  picture  on  the  walls.  It 
is  unframed ;  a  head  in  colored  chalks — a  woman's  head, 
of  course ;  a  low-browed,  fair-faced,  serene-eyed,  smiling- 
mouthed  woman  ;  and  underneath,  in  pencil,  "  MademoiselU 
— ,  New  Orleans,  May  — ,  1861." 

Mr.  Dane  produces  an  eye-glass — his  handsome  blue  eyei» 
are  short-sighted — and  looks  at  this  picture.  Then  he  turoi 
and  looks  at  Captain  Dick,  a  look  so  keen,  so  suspicious,  so 
swift,  so  full  of  fire,  that  for  one  second  it  alters  his  whole 
expression.  For  one  second  only — when  the  other  glances 
lip  from  his  manuscripts,  the  habitually  negligent  and  indi' 
ferent  air  returns. 

"  A  pretty  face,"  he  says,  lightly.  "  You  add  artistic  ten- 
dencies to  your  other  virtues,  I  perceive.  I  don't  know,  of 
course,  but  it  strikes  me  I  have  seen  a  face  very  like  tha* 
somewhere." 

*'  Very  likely.  I  have  a  portfolio  about  in  some  comer, 
if  you  care  for  that  sort  of  thing.  Do  you  sketch  ?  There 
are  some  rather  good  views  here  and  there  in  the  vicinity  ol 
St.  Ann's  and  Shaddeck  Bay." 

"  My  dear  fellow,  I  do  nothing — nothing-r-absolutely  an** 
utterly  nothing.  I  am  ashamed  of  myself.  I  can  recol.ect 
no  time  in  which  I  was  not  ashamed  of  myself  I  have  suf- 
fered from  chronic  remors,;  for  my  laziness  evci  iince  J  lad 
»  conscience.  But  all  the  same,  I  never  reform.  I  don't 
kuppose  I  ever  shall.  I  don't  sketch,  I  don't  read,  I  don't 
smoke  ;  1  have  no  r^ims,  no  mission,  no  sphere.  The  world 
goes  roi  nd  and  I  go  round  with  it.  I  drift  with  the  tide, 
a&d  am  bounc'  to  no  port.  And,  apropos  of  tides,  the  tide 
of  our  afiairs  will  soon  be  the  flood  again,  and  our  peninsula 
once  more  an  island.  So  I  think  IT-  n?ake  off.  I  see  you 
have  no  boat  here,  so  I  conclude  it  is  <?othing  inusaal  f<» 
jrou  t  ^  be  oceanbourd. ' 


?! 


■t 


■4  SHADDBCK  LIGHT, 

'*  h  boat  is  one  of  the  necessities  of  my  ex'jiteTice,*'  Ctp 
tain  Dick  says.  *'  If  you  are  going,  I  believe  I  will  go  alao 
I  ani  due  at  the  house  before  six." 

"  Meaning  by  the  house,  tho  residence  of  the  Honorable 
Robert  Charlton  ?  " 

**Ahl  you  know.  Yes,  Mi  Charlton  is  my  step-father; 
BRcI,  by  the  way,  as  he  is  the  soul  of  hospitality,  I  think  I 
may  tender  you  an  invitation  in  his  name.  You  must  find 
time  hang  rather  heavily,  I  should  say,  at  St.  Ann's." 

Yes,  Mr.  Dane  admits  with  a  gentle  sigh.  To  find  time 
hang  heavily  is,  he  regrets  to  say,  one  of  the  hxed  conditions 
of  his  existence.  It  is  the  penalty,  he  supposes,  life  exact) 
from  perfectly  idle  men.  Very  many  thanks  for  Captain 
Dick's  friendly  offer,  which  at  some  future  day,  he  hopes  to 
avail  himself  of.  Then  he  lifts  his  hat  and  turns  towards  St. 
Ann's  while  Captain  Dick,  whistling  as  he  goes,  gets  over 
the  ground  with  long  strides,  in  a  directly  opposite  course. 

The  sun  is  setting.  The  sea  lies  smooth  and  sparkling 
below,  the  sky  spreads  yellow,  Heecy,  ros'e-flushed  above, 
the  fields  swell  green  and  golden  far  away,  the  beach 
stretches  white  and  glistening  near. 

Mr.  Ernest  Dane  turns  and  watches  his  late  companion 
out  of  sight,  a  stalwart,  strong  figure,  clearly  outlined  agtiinst 
the  western  red  light,  with  something  unmistakably  military 
in  the  square  shoulders  and  upright  poise  of  the  head,  some- 
thing bright  and  breezy  in  air,  and  eye,  and  frankly  ringing 
voice,  something  resolute  and  decided  in  th«  very  echo  of 
the  firm,  quick  footsteps.  Mr.  Dane's  face  larkens,  as  he 
watches,  and  his  handsome,  bored,  blonde  countenance  set- 
tles for  a  moment  into  as  darkly  earnest  an  expression  as 
tliough  he  were  a  man  with  a  purpose  in  life  which  that  otl;e? 
man  had  crossed.  It  is  but  a  momert.  He  turns  away 
with  a  slight,  contemptuous  shrug,  just  as  tiie  tall  captain 
«he<^l8  round  a  bend  in  the  white  road,  ind  disaopean 


CHARLTCN  PLACE. 


IS 


CHAPTER  IL 


CHARLTON   PLACK. 


HE  is  a  handsome  girl,  and  yet  at  first  sight  i^<a% 
are  jveople  who  do  not  think  so.  It  ii  the  »3rt  of 
face  that  owes  nothing  to  bright  coloiing  of  hair 
or  complexion,  Httle  to  dress,  and  less  to  ornament.  The 
hair  is  pale  brown,  absolutely  without  a  tinge  of  warmer 
tint,  either  gold  or  russet,  the  complexion,  clear  and  health* 
^,  is  colorless ;  the  eyes  like  a  fawn's,  soft,  thoughtful, 
peculiarly  gentle;  the  mouth  at  once  firm  and  sweet,  the 
profile  nearly  perfect.  Above  middle  height,  with  a  figure 
well  rounded  and  flexible,  hands  long,  tapering,  beautiful  \ 
dressed  in  black  silk  by  no  means  new,  but  well-fitting,  a 
touch  of  fine  lace,  and  a  coral  pin  at  the  throat — that  is  Elea- 
nor Charlton. 

She  stands  at  the  open  window  and  looks  out ;  a  ronder- 
fill  light  of  pleased  admiration  in  the  hazel  eyes.  Honey- 
suckle and  sweet-smelling  roses  cluster  all  about  the  case- 
ment, and  fill  the  sweet  summer  warmth  with  perfume.  A 
sea  of  fluttering  green  leaves  and  brilliant  flowers  spreads  out 
just  beneath,  and  far  beyond,  with  the  hot,  yellow  blaze  of 
the  July  sun  upon  it,  another  sea,  all  a-sparkle  as  if  sown  with 
•tars. 

**  Ho:if  pretty  '  how  pi;ity  I "  she  says,  a  smile  of  pleasure 
dawning  on  her  lips ;  ^^  how  pretty  it  all  is  I  How  happy 
one  might  be— could  be — in  such  a  home  as  this." 

The  smile  dies  away,  and  a  faint  sigh  comes  instead. 
i^or  all  the  home  Miss  Charlton  knows,  has  known  for  thfl 
past  eight  years,  is  the  hopeless  home  of  &  city  boarding 
house. 

A  breeze  comes  up  from  Shaddeck  Bay  and  flutters  tht 


i9 


CHARLTON  fLACE, 


''  vi 


I    I 


honeysuckle  bells,  and  swings  the  pink  clusters  of  the  rofC& 
A  bee  staggers  heavily  by,  drunk  with  sweets,  booming  drow- 
sily. Little  white-sailed  boats  glide  about  over  the  shining 
water,  a  door  shuts  somewhere  in  the  sleepy  afternoon  still- 
ness of  the  house.  Then  there  is  a  tap,  and  before  Miss 
Chailton  has  time  to  say  come  in,  the  tapper  comes  in  and 
proves  to  be  Mrs.  Charlton's  mamma,  a  lady  of  the  fat  and 
fifty  order,  with  a  hooked  nose,  a  double  chin,  &  thin,  com- 
pressed mouth,  a  hard,  cold  eye,  a  false  front,  false  teeth, 
a  good  deal  of  gold  jewelry  on  hands  and  bosom — the  well- 
preserved  remains  of  a  ''fine  woman." 

'*  Eleanor,"  she  says,  abruptly,  and  turning  the  key  in  the 
door. 

«  Yes,  mother.** 

Miss  Charlton's  voice  is  as  gentle  as  her  eyes,  as  sweet  at 
her  smile.  Mrs.  Charlton's,  on  the  contrary,  is  of  a  rasping 
and  astringent  quality,  that  leaves  an  impression  as  bitters  in 
the  mouth. 

"  I  wish  to  speak  with  you,  seriously,  my  dear,  v-e-r  y 
seriously,"  says  Mrs.  Charlton,  taking  a  chair,  folding  her 
hands,  and  fixing  her  glimmering  eyes  on  her  daughter's  face. 
*'  I  have  just  been  talking  to  Mr.  Charlton,  and  he  says— ^- 
Sitdown." 

She  pushes  a  chair  up,  and  Eleanor  obeys.  A  look  of  weari- 
ness comes  over  her  fair  face,  as  if  the  ordeal  of  being 
•*  v-e-r-y  seriously  "  spoken  to,  was  no  new  one  and  no  pleas- 
ant one. 

"  As  I  inferred  from  the  first,  my  dear,"  begins  Mrs.  Chaiir 
ton,  with  unction,  "  Mr.  Charlton  had  a  motive  in  sending 
lor  us  to  visit  him,  other  than  that  he  set  forth.  People  may 
remember  their  deceased  cousin's  widow  and  orphan,  and 
blood  may  be  thicker  than  v/nter;  but,  as  a  general  thing, 
they  don't  send  several  hundred  miles  for  these  relatives  to 
visit  thtm,  without  some  other  motive  than  pure  benevolence 
being  on  the  cards.    That  something  else  I  have  iiscoveredi 


CHARLTON  PLACE, 


i; 


and  its  name  is **    Mrs.  Charlton  pa&ses  in  triumphant 

expectatioB,  and  Miss  Charlton  smiles. 

"  Yes,  mother,  I  know  your  perspicacity.    It's  nan  le  is——* 

**  Richard  Caryl  Ffrench." 

Miss  Charlton  lifts  her  pretty  eyebrows,  but  she  is  not  inr 
l^iised. 

"  Captain  Ffrench — his  step-son  ?  Well,  that  is  very  natu- 
ral, mother,  only  I  don't  perceive  the  connection.  What 
have  we  to  do,  what  has  our  coming  to  do,  with  this  modem 
Sir  PhUip  Sidney  ?  " 

"  My  dear,  everything,  everything  /  "  Mrs.  Charlton 
looks  about  her,  glances  out  of  the  window,  lowers  her  voice 
to  a  gunpowder-plot  whisper,  "Mark  my  words,  Eleanor^ 
Robert  Charlton  has  sent  for  you  with  one  purpose— onljp 
one — to  marry  you  to  Richard  Ffrench." 

"Mother  I" 

"  It  is  perfectly  true.  He  did  not  say  so  in  so  many 
words,  of  course.  How  could  he  ?  All  the  same,  that  is  the 
hidden  meaning  of  our  invitation  here.  And,  Elea  lor,  mind 
what  I  am  saying,  it  is  the  best  chance  you  have  ever  had,, 
ever  will  have.     I  look  to  you  not  to  thwart  Mr.  Charlton." 

"  But,  mother " 

"You  can  raise  no  obstacle — none  at  all.  When  yoii 
dismissed  Mr.  Gore  a  year  ago,  you  said  he  was  notoriously 
dissipated,  and  I  accepted  that  reason,  although  I  failed  to 
perceive  then,  and  do  still,  what  a  little  wildness  in  a  mai- 
with  a  million  can  signify.  But  here  it  is  different.  Captain 
Ffrench,  from  what  I  can  hear,  is  all  the  most  exacting 
could  desire ;  handsome,  young,  brave,  clever — everything. 
I  look  to  you,  Eleanor,  to  do  all  you  can  to  please  Captain 
Ffrench." 

**  Oh !  mother,  mother,  hush ! "  Her  color  nas  flushed, 
then  faded  ;  a  look  of  pain,  of  shame  contracts  her  brows  ; 
her  hands  lock  and  unlock  nervously,  "  You  are  alw^ayt 
dreaming,   always  talkii  g,  always  hoping  for  this.      Why 


I8 


CHARLTOA  PLACh, 


t!l 


\-\ 


should  Mr.  Charlton  have  mean}  so  absurd  a  thing?    Cap 
tain  Ffrench  has  no  i.eed  to  have  a  wife  chosen  for  hini,  and 
thrown  at  his  head.      If  he  is  all  you  say,  is  he  likely  to  let 
any  one  choose  for  him  ?    And  besides " 


i< 


Well,  Eleanor,  and  besides?"    says  Mrs.  Charlton,  aus 
lerely  ;  but  Eleanor  rises,  biting  her  lip  and  flushing  guiltily 
She  goes  back  to  the  window,  where  the  roses  hang  and  the 
woodbine  clambers,  just  as  sweetly  as  half  an  hour  ago,  but 
the  soft  eyes  are  only  full  of  impatient,  impotent  pain  now. 

"There  can  be  no  *  besides,' "  says  her  mother,  stili  more 
austerely.  "  And  I  have  made  no  mistake  in  Mr.  Charlton's 
meaning.  It  is  not  my  habit  to  make  mistakes.  It  is  Mr. 
Charlton's  wish  that  you  should  marry  his  step-son,  who  is  a 
little,  just  a  little,  hair-brained  about  exploring  and  soldiering, 
and  liable  to  run  away  at  a  moment's  notice." 

**  And  so  is  to  have  a  wife  tied  to  him  as  a  sort  of  drag* 
anchor,  whether  he  will  or  no.  Well,  mother,  I  decline  be- 
ing that  drag-anchor." 

"  You  will  do  exactly  as  you  please,  of  course,"  retorts  hei 
mother,  angrily  ;  **  as  you  always  do.  But,  remember  this, 
if  you  are  perverse,  if  you  take  to  riding  any  of  your  ex- 
tremely  high  horses  here,  if  you  refuse  the  heir  of  this  noble 
estate— 


»> 


**  Mother,  listen  to  me,"  Eleanor  Charlton  says,  and  puts 
ber  hand  with  a  tired  gesture  to  her  head ;  "  do  not  let  us 
q^varrcl — oh  1  do  not  this  very  first  day.  What  you  hope 
for  carmot  be ;  there  must  be  a  mistake.  You  know — his 
letter  of  invitation  said  so — that  he  has  also  invited  those 
two  young  ladies  in  New  York,  his  distant  relatives,  as  well 
IS  we -" 

**  That  but  confirms  my  suspicion,  my  certainty,"  inter- 
rupts her  mother,  calmly.  "  Richard  Ffrench  is  to  have  his 
choice — all  in  the  family.  Very  nxturally  this  great  fortune 
is  to  be  kept  with  the  Charlton  :lood,  if  possible,  and  is 
jronr  veins  am',  iu  theus  alone  does  it  run.     R'char'I  Ffrencfc 


CBARL  rON  PLACE, 


19 


{•  io  choose  between  you.  But  you  are  fim  in  the  field,  and 
to  an  impressionable  young  man  fresh  fro.n  wild  Northern 
regions " 

"  Mother,  hush  1  I  cannot  bear  it,"  Eleanor  cries  out 
<  Oh  1  how  many  times  have  I  listened  to  this;  how  man^ 
tunes  have  you  not  tried  to  sell  me  to  the  highest  bidder.  IIu  w 
many  times  have  I  not  been  shamed,  shamed  to  the  heait, 
by  the  looks  men  gave  me,  after  talking  to  you,  Let  me 
alone,  mother.  I  will  work  for  you,  I  will  give  you  all  I 
earn,  I  will  never  complain ;  but  for  the  sake  of  our  com- 
mon womanhood,  do  not  make  roe  blush  again  before  the 
master  and  son  of  this  house.  And  hear  me  once  for  all — I 
will  work  until  I  drop  dead  from  work,  I  will  lie  down  and 
die  of  starvation,  before  I  marry  any  man  for  his  money,  and 
his  money  alone." 

**Hush-h!"  says  Mrs.  Charlton,  "hush,  for  Heavtn's 
sake!"  There  has  been  a  rap  at  the  door,  now  there  is 
another.  She  smooths  her  angry  face,  rises,  opens  it,  and 
sees  a  trim  and  smiling  housemaid. 

"Mastei's  compliments,  ma'am,  and  any  time  you  and 
Miss  Charlton  is  ready,  he  is  waiting  to  show  you  through 
the  grounds." 

'*  Thank  you,"  Mrs.  Charlton  responds,  suavely.     "  Tell 

Mr.  Charlton  we  will  be  down  in  one  moment.     £leanor, 

my  love,  if  you  are  quite  ready  we  will   not  keep  our  kind 

host  waiting." 

41  *  «  •  •  *  « 

The  rose  light  of  the  sunset  has  faded  out  into  opal  and 
gray,  the  cool  of  evening  has  fsLllen  upon  the  world,  at  white 
heat  all  day,  when  Richard  Pfrench  turns  into  the  ponderous 
iron  gateway,  between  its  couchant  lions,  and  goes  up  the 
long,  leafy,  tree-shaded  drive.  The  old  elms  and  hemlocks 
meet  overhead,  and  make  green  gbom  even  at  no(mday. 
It  is  deepest  twilight  beneath  their  arcning  vault  now.  He 
emerges  in  front  of  the  house,  a  large,  quaint,  red  brick  struc- 


CHARLTON  PLACE, 


i  '1; 


ture,  let  in  a  great  slope  of  velvety  turf  and  lawn,  fritl«  wide 
h^Us,  and  bay-windows,  and  open  doors.  Brilliant  beds  of 
gladioli,  geranium,  verbena,  heliotrope,  and  pansy  crop  up 
everywhere,  and  oflf  yonder  among  a  very  thicket  of  roses 
he  catclies  the  sound  of  ladies'  voices,  the  flutter  of  ladieft 
skirts. 

*'  Humph  1 "  says  Captain  Dick,  and  stops  in  his  whist- 
ling ;  "  so  they  have  come.  I  thought  they  would,  i  hope 
the  governor — dear  old  woman-lover  that  he  is — is  aappv  ai 
last." 

An  runused  look  is  in  the  young  man's  gray  eyes,  as  He 
stands  and  reconnoitres.  The  trio  examine  the  floral  beau- 
ties, unconscious  of  the  mischievous  gaze  upon  ^em. 

"As  if  I  didn't  see  through  the  transparent  ruse — bless  his 
innocent  old  soul — and  as  if  they  won't  see  through  it  too, 
before  they  are  an  hour  in  the  house ;  I  only  hope  the 
young  lady  has  some  sense  of  humor.  And  three  of  them, 
by  George  I  I  should  think  the  Sultan  of  all  the  Turkeyi 
must  feel  something  as  I  will,  when  the  last  lot  arrives." 

Capiain  Dick  throws  back  his  head  and  laughs  all  by  him- 
•elf  ;  a  mellow,  ringing,  thoroughly  joyous  laugh.  Then  he 
turns  to  escape  into  the  house,  for  it  will  not  do,  he  thinks.. 
to  shock  these  delicate  creatures  with  a  rough  jacket  and  a 
slc^ch  hat,  when  Fate  wills  it  otherwise  The  trio  turn 
suddenly,  advance,  see  him,  and  retreat  is  cut  ofi.  He 
accepts  defeat  with  calmness,  and  stands  and  wails.  And  as 
he  waits  his  eyes  widen,  dilate,  with  surprise,  for  the  face  oi 
the  younger  lady  is  the  face  in  colored  chalks  over  the  vanxi 
Id  at  Shaddsck  Light. 


d  FAIRY  TALE. 


CHAPTER  IIL 


A  FAIRY  TALI. 


NCK  upon  a  time  there  was  a  kii.g  vvho  lived  in  • 
lovely  castle,  and  had  two  daughters.  The  oldest 
was  ever  so  pretty,  and  her  name  was  the  Princesfl 
Snowflake.  The  youngest  wasn't  pretty  at  all,  and  her  name 
was  the  Princess  Brownskin." 

The  nerrator  pauses  for  breath.  She  is  an  extr-mely 
young  iady^  certainly  not  more  than  sixteen.  The  ca':'tious 
critic  might  perchance  find  fault  with  her  grammar,  particu- 
larly as  she  is  a  preceptress  of  youth  ;  but  there  are  no  cap- 
tious critics  present — only  a  very  small  boy  and  a  smalU  »•  girl. 

Twiligh'^.  the  witching  hour  for  fairy  tales,  fills  the  ^oom. 
Rainy  twilight,  too,  for  the  drops  patter  against  the  plate 
glass,  driven  by  the  sweep  of  summer  wind. 

"  Well,  after  a  long  time  this  great,  beautiful  king  died," 
there  Js  a  little  touch  of  sadness  in  the  fresh,  clc«%>  voic«  ; 
"  anr*  the  two  poor  little  princesses  were  thrown  aU  alcne 
OD  tiTvs  world.    They  went  away  from  the  lovely  c«*stle  Into 

the   big,  noisy,  nasty,  ugly,   horrid   city Flossy  1    let 

pussy' a  tail  alone.  Lex  1  I  am  watching  you.  Vou  are 
filling  asleep,  sir,  just  as  fast  as  you  can  fall.'* 

^'  I  ain't ! "  says  Lex,  indignantly ;  "  I  hear  every  wcrd. 
Was  the  horrid  city  New  York,  Vera  ?  " 

"  Oh,  you  stupid  little  boy  !  as  if  there  ever  were  any 
princesses  in  New  York.  No,  this  was  in  Fairyland.  Well, 
and  then  these  two  princesses  had  to  go  to  work  as  if  they 
had  never  been  princesses  at  all.  The  ugly  little  Princess 
ftrownskin  didn't  mind  it  so  much,  because  she  only  had  to 
teach  two  little  children,  and  that  isn  t  hard,  you  know,  but 
tht  ix)or  pretty  Princess  Snowfiake— 


If 


I 


m  A  FAIRY  TALE, 

'*  Vera,"  says  Flossy,  opening  her  baby  eyes,  ^  was  tfai 
ndly  pwincess  you  t " 

'*  There  never  was,"  says  the  young  lady  despAiringlyi 
'*  such  a  ridiculous  sn^all  girl  as  you,  Flossy  1  Of  coutm 
not  Who  ever  said  I  w  iS  a  princess.  Well — where  was  I  9 
Oh  1  at  the  Princess  Snowflake.  Lex,  you  are  pulling 
pussy's  tail  now.  I  declare  I  won't  tell  another  word.  I'll 
get  right  up  and  light  the  gas." 

But  at  this  dismal  threat  both  children  set  up  a  ciy  d 
misery  that  caused  their  stern  monitress  to  relent. 

"  Vera,  child,"  says  an  anxious  voice.  A  door  suddenly 
opens,  and  there  is  a  rustle  of  silk.  **  Are  ycu  here  ?  Oh, 
you  are.  I  want  you  to  go  to  Madame  Lebrun's  for  me. 
What  are  you  doing  ?  " 

**  Telling  Floss  and  I-.ex  a  fairy  tale,"  answers  the  tx- 
tremely  young  lady,  laughing  and  rising  from  the  hearth-rug, 
upon  which  she  has  been  coiled.  "Shall  I  light  the  gai, 
Mrs.  Trafton?" 

"Yes,  please,  and  ring  for  Filomena — it  is  time  those 
children  were  in  the  nursery.  Lex,  if  you  cry,  sir,  you  shall 
be  whipped." 

"I  want  to  hear  about  the  pretty  Princess  Snowflake,' 
pipes  little  Lex. 

"Want  hear  about  pwetty  Pwincess  Nofake,"  echoef 
little  Flossy. 

**  Here,  Filomena,"  says  the  lady,  calmly,  twitching  et 
silk  skirts  from  Lex's  clinging  fingers,  "  take  those  children 
upstairs  directly.  Vera,  my  dear,  let  nurse  light  the  gaa^ 
you  will  strain  your  arms  if  you  stretch  up  like  that.  Ve% 
I  want  you  to  go  to  inadame's  directly ;  she  promised  to 
send  my  dress  home  at  five,  and  here  it  is  after  six,  and  not 
a  sign  of  it  yet.  But  it  is  exactly  like  her.  You  must  go 
and  t  y  it  on,  please  ;  our  figures  are  so  much  alike  sne  will 
be  able  to  tell.  I  am  sorry  it  rains,"  walking  to  the  window 
and  locking  drearily  out.     *'  I  would  send  the  carriage,  only 


A  FAIRY  TALE. 


n 


Om 


Mr.  Trifton  is  so  tiresome  about  taking  out  the  horses  in  the 

wet      But  you  can  take  a  stage " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mind  the  rain/'  says  Vera  brightly  ;  "  I 
rather  like  it,  in  fact,  with  waterproof  and  rjbbers,  and  I 
shall  be  glad  to  see  Dot.  I  am  to  try  on,  and  wait  for  alter- 
ations, if  any  are  needed,  I  suppose,  Mrs.  Trafton  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  dear  ;  and  if  you  have  to  wait  very  long,  make 
raadame  send  some  one  back  with  you.  Tiresome  old  thing  I 
she  never  does  finish  anything  when  she  promises." 

The  gas  is  lit  now,  and  Lex  and  Flossy,  wailing  loudly  foi 
their  lost  princesses,  are  borne  ofif  by  the  French  nurse. 
The  pretty  room,  "curtained,  and  close,  and  warm,"  is 
known  as  the  school-room,  but  in  it  there  is  more  of  Grimm's 
Goblins  than  of  grammar,  Hans  Andersen  than  horn -books. 
Mrs.  Trafton,  a  pale,  faded,  young  woman,  stands  looking 
out  at  the  fast  falling  rain,  and  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
directly  under  the  chandelier,  is  Miss  Vera.  She  is  a  gu*l  of 
sixteen,  and  hardly  looks  that,  with  a  soft  cut,  childish,  inno- 
cent sort  of  face,  a  profusion  of  short,  black  hair,  a  pair  of 
dark  eyes  that  laugh  frankly  on  ail  the  world,  and  small, 
white  teeth  that  flash  forth  merrily  for  very  little  provoca- 
tion. She  is  thin  and  dark,  too  unformed  and  angular  fof 
good  looks,  but  a  bright  brown  fairy,  and  not  in  the  slightest 
like  any  one's  ideal  of  a  governess.  She  looks  as  if  she 
might  very  well  go  into  the  school-room  herself  for  three  or 
four  years,  and  be  the  bette»"  for  it. 

She  encases  herself  in  a  waterproof,  crushes  a  little  straw 
hat  down  on  all  her  soft  curls,  and  trips  away  as  gayly  as 
though  it  were  a  sunlit  noonday.  It  is  rainmg  quite  heavily, 
but  she  catches  an  onmibus  at  the  corner,  and  goes  rattling 
down  town  to  the  great  dressmaking  emporium  on  Four- 
teenth Street.  The  city  lamps  are  Ht,  and  shine  through 
the  wet  drift  of  the  rain.  The  pavements  are  greased  with 
'that  slimy  black  mud,  dear  from  long  association,  to  the 
he«rt  of  the  New  Yorker.     People  hurry  oy  with  gloomy 


A  FAIRY  TALE, 


I' 


faces  aiider  their  umbrellas.    Vera  gets  out  at  the  comer  of 

Fourteenth  Street,  unfurls  her  parachute,  tiptoes  with  much 
distaste  through  the  sticky  mud,  and  up  the  steps  of  Madame 
Lebrun's  establishment.  A  colored  man  in  livery  opens  tiM 
door,  and  Miss  Vera  smiles  a  friendly  smile  of  acquaintance- 
ihip. 

**  De  do,  Jackson  ?  Dreadful  sort  of  evening,  isn't  it } 
Is  my  sister  in  ?  " 

"  I  presume  so,  Miss  Vera.  This  way.  Miss  Vera,  if  jroa 
please ;  the  reception-rooms  are  engaged.  Step  in  here  one 
moment,  and  I  will  inform  Miss  I^ightwood." 

The  gentlemanly  Jackson  ushers  her  into  a  small  room, 
and  leaves  Ker.  She  has  to  wait  for  some  time,  and  is  grow- 
ing impatient,  when  the  door  quickly  opens  and  her  sister 
enters. 

*'  Vera  ! "  she  exclaims,  "  Jackson  told  me Oh  1  here 

you  are,  I  did  not  see  you  for  a  moment.  Mrs.  Trafton 
has  sent  fo*-  her  ball-dress,  I  suppose  ?  Well,  she  might  have 
spared  you  the  trouble,  for  it  went  five  minutes  before  you 
came.  But  it  is  just  as  well,  for  if  you  had  not  come,  I  must 
have  gone  to  see  you.     Vera,  I  have  such  news  1  " 

She  stops  and  clasps  her  hands,  and  looks  at  her  sister 
with  shining  eyes.  She  is  small,  slight,  and  excessively 
pretty ;  a  young  woman,  not  a  girl,  with  a  pale,  delicate 
C3u:e,  a  profusion  of  light  h«iir  elaborately  "  done,"  and  set 
off  by  a  knot  of  crimson  silk.  Her  eyes  are  as  blue  as  foi- 
get-me-nots,  her  complexion  as  milky  white  as  a  baby's.  A 
beautiful  little  woman,  but  somehow  looking  every  day  of 
her  six-and-twenty  years. 

Vera  opens  wide  her  black  eyes. 

" News,  Dot  ?    Whsre  from  ?   Who  from  ?   What  about?  " 

"  Look  here  ! "  Dot  draws  from  her  pocket  a  letter,  and 
unfolds  it  triumphantly.  '*  Do  you  see  this  letter  ?  It  came 
tiiis  morning,  and  that  is  why  I  meant  to  go  and  see  you  to 
night     Vera,  you  nev^r  irou/d  guess  whom  it  is  from  ?" 


A  FAIRY  TALE, 


n 


A 

of 


**  Never/  tayi  Vera,  with  an  air  of  convictior. ;  '  I  ne^cf 
guessed  a  riddle  of  any  kind  in  my  life.     Who  ?  " 

''  From  Mr.  Charlton — the  Honorable  Robert  Charlton, 
of  Charlton  Place,  St.  Ann's,"  says  Dot  with  unction,  <*and 
it  is  an  invitation  to  both  of  us  to  go  there  and  spend  fhe 
•ummer.  Both  of  us,  Vera.  He  says  expressly — where  is 
tile  place — bring  your  half-sister,  Miss  Veronica,  with  you ; 
I  am  sure  the  poor  little  thing  must  need  a  glimpse  ol 
green  fields  and  blue  water  alter  her  prolonged  course  oi 
stony  city  streets.  Come  as  soon  as  you  can,  and  enclosed 
please  find  check  for  travelling  expenses.  Vera,  how  much 
do  you  suppose  the  check  is  for  ?  Three — hundred— dol- 
lars 1 " 

Vera  snatches  up  her  hat  and  waves  it  above  her 
bead.  "  Hooray  1  Your  Mr.  Charlton  is  a  prince — long 
life  to  him  1  Three  hundred  dollars,  green  fields  and 
blue " 

*'  Be  quiet,  Vera.  Do,  for  pity's  sake,  get  rid  of  your 
romping  propensities  before  we  go.  Mr.  Charlton  evidently 
looks  upon  you  as  a  little  girl,  and  I  am  sure  you  act  like 
one,  and  a  hoidenish  one  al«,that.  A  young  lady  of  sixteen 
past " 

**  Oh,  never  mind  that,  Dot — don't  scold.  Read  me 
some  more  of  the  letter — he  does  e.xpress  himself  so  beauti- 
fully I  *  Inclosed  please  find  check  for  travelling  exp'jnses.' 
Could  anything  be  more  exquisite  than  M^/  /  " 

**  There  is  nothing  else  in  particular,"  says  Dot,  folding  it 
op  and  replacing  it  in  her  pocket.  *'  He  mentions  that  Mrs. 
Charlton  and  her  daughter  from  Nev/  Orleans  are  also  com- 
ing. He  speaks  casually,  I  believe,  of  his  step-son  Richard 
Ffirt'nch,  who  has  lately  returned  from  somewhere — Lapland, 
or  Greenland,  or  the  North  Pole." 

**  Lapland,  Greenland,  or  the  North  Pole,"  sighs  Vera, 
Canring  herself  with  her  hat,  "how  nice  and  cool  thcj 
lound.     I  wonder  Richard  Ffrench  c'dn't  stay  there.     Mi 


Ji 


•6  A  FAIRY  TALE, 

Charlton's  «:ei.-ion-"-uin  —  is  he   his   0nlj  son,  his  hiif 
Dot  ?  " 

**  I  presume  so/'  Dot  answers,  and  a  demure  smile  dim 
pies  her  pretty  face, 

"  It  is  a  very  lucky  thing,"  says  Vera,  regarding  her  sistci 
gravely,  "  that  you  are  pretty.  It  would  be  a  shame  for 
two  ugly  girls  to  inflict  themselves  on  one  house,  and 
a  rich  young  man  there  too.  It  is  not  to  be  supposed 
that  Richard  Ffrench  has  left  his  heart's  best  afTectiong 
with  a  Laplander,  or  a  Greenlander,  or  a  North  Polei 
And  that  dress  is  awfully  becoming  to  you.  Dot.     Navy 

blue,  and  dark  red  in  the  hair Dot,  when  are  w< 

going?" 

"  There  is  no  need  of  delay.  I  told  madanie  at  once, 
and  though  she  regrets,  and  so  on,  she  has  to  consent.  I 
shall  use  the  money  of  course,  and  I  see  no  reason  why  we 
should  not  start  next  week.  Now,  if  you  are  going  home, 
you  had  better  go  ;  it  is  getting  late,  and  raining  hard.  Tell 
Mrs.  Trafton — or,  no.  I  will  call  to-morrow,  and  tell  hei 
myself,  and  then  we  can  go  down  to  Stewart's  together  foi 
our  things." 

"  To  Stewart's  together  for  our  things,"  repeats  Vera,  in 
a  sort  of  dreamy  ecstasy  ;  "  it  is  lovely,  it  is  heavenly,  it  ia 
one  of  my  fairy  tales  come  true.  The  Princess  Snowilake 
shall  go  to  St.  Ann's,  and  Prince  Richard  Cceur  de  Lion 
sliall  have  the  prettiest  wife  in  all  the  world.  Shall  you 
weav  white  silk,  or  a  travelling  suit  when  you  are  married, 
Dot,  and  may  I  stay  among  the  green  helds  and  blue  sea 
forever  and  ever  ?  Yes,  it  is  a  fairy  tale,  with  castle,  and 
prince,  and  everything  just  as  it  ought  to  be.  Shopping 
to  morrow  at  Stewart's  I  No,  I  cannot  rer.lize  it.  Good* 
night.  Dot." 

**  Good-night,  goose, '  lau^^hs  Dot,  and  seei  her  to  the 
floor.  This  little  dark  girl  is  the  one  thing  in  all  the  world 
diat  Theodora  Light  ivood  Icves. 


A  MAKS  LETTER. 


V 


Vera  goes  home  through  the  wet,  wind-beaten,  nnd 
■plashed  city  streets,  and  the  world  is  all  rose-color,  the 
pave:nents  of  crystal  and  jasper,  the  rayless  night  sky  ashint 
with  the  light  of  hope.  She  is  living  a  fauy  ta^e ;  the  en* 
chanted  palace  awaits,  the  dashing  Prince  Charming  is  there« 
a  long  golden  summer  lies  before 

**  And  the  Princess  Snowflake  married  Prince  Richaidy 
the  Laplander,"  cries  Vera,  gleefully,  giving  wakeful  Lex  a 
rH>liirou8  hug,  **  and  they  lived  happy  forever  after." 


CHAPTER   IV. 


)d- 


A     man'  S     LETTS  R. 

From  Captain  Richard  Ffrench  to  Dr.  Emit  Englehart, 

ND  so,  after  a  year  in  Baffin's  Bay,  a  wintei  in  St. 
Petersburg,  after  rinking  with  London  belles,  and 
alter  waltzing  with  Viennese  beauties,  without  risk 
to  wind  or  limb,  you  slip  on  an  innoxious  orange-peel  in  Nei« 
ifork  streets,  and  manage  to  sprain  your  ankle.  Great  ii 
Allah,  and  wonderful  are  the  ways  of  Emil  Englehart !  All 
the  same,  old  boy,  it  must  be  no  end  ot  a  bore  to  be  tied  -p 
^y  the  leg,  just  at  this  time  when  there  is  so  much  to  be  done 
about  the  •xpedition  which  nobody  but  you  can  do.  As  it 
is  of  no  use  cr3dng  over  spilled  milk,  however,  you  may  fis 
well  dry  your  eyes,  cease  your  howls,  put  your  snapped 
tnkle  under  the  nearest  water-spcut,  and  improve  your  mind 
dtuing  the  next  fortnight  by  reading  hard  at  Spanish.  I  an 
getting  on  myself;  I  have  a  den  out  here  in  the  *  vasty  d^ep, 
a  little  house  about  the  size  to  hang  from  your  watch-chain, 
perched  on  a  rock,  and  in  it  I  spend  my  lays.  My  nights, 
when  the  moon  is  at  the  full,  I  devote  to  the  toilers  of  the 


mi 


98 


li 


ii! 


A  MAIPS  LETTER, 


Such  has  been  my  life  for  the  past  six  weeks ; 
fbl,  virtuous,  studious,  monotonous ;  but,  alas  1 

*'  *  Nothing  can  be  as  it  has  been  before. 
Better  so  call  it,  only  not  the  same.* 


*'  A  change  is  coming,  has  come ;  woman  hao  entered  mjr 
Eden,  and  the  bliss  of  uninterrupted  days  of  reading  and 
di  awing,  of  smoking  peaceful  calumets  in  the  best  parlor  of 
the  Manor  House,  o'  evenings  of  dining  in  a  pea-jacket,  is 
at  an  end.  If  I  threw  the  house  out  of  the  window,  it  would 
be  good  and  admirable  in  the  eyes  of  the  dear  old  governor, 
but  the  delicate  female  mind,  the  sensitive  female  olfactories 
must  be  shocked  by  no  deed  of  mine.  Henceforward  free- 
dom is  gone,  and  I  return  to  the  trammels  of  civilization  and 
tail-coats. 

**  I  have  never  told  you  aoout  the  governor,  have  I,  nor 
how  I  come  to  have  a  home  Hereabouts  ?  No,  I  don't  think 
I  have.  We  always  found  enough  to  do,  and  say,  and  think, 
without  going  into  autobiography.  But  now  the  chained 
tiger  is  to  be  soothed,  the  sick  surgeon  to  be  charmed  out  of 
his  loneliness.  I  am  ordered,  under  penalty  of  bastinado  and 
bow-string,  to  write  long  letters,  amusing  letters,  and  my  lord, 
the  Sultan,  shall  be  obeyed.  Long  they  shali  be,  amusing 
they  may  be,  if  you  find  yourself  weakened  intellectually,  as 
well  as  physically,  by  your  sprained  ankle. 

"  Fourteen  years  ago,  then,  I  went  home  one  vacatioK. 
from  school,  to  find  my  mother  transferred  from  her  cottage 
to  a  handsome  home,  and  to  be  introduced  to  a  tall,  spare, 
elderly  gentleman,  *  frosty  but  kindly,'  as  my  new  papa.  1 
was  about  thirteen  at  the  time,  with  very  pronounced  ideas 
on  the  subject  of  step-fathers,  and,  for  the  matter  of  that,  on 
most  other  s:ibjects. 

**  *  You  must  be  sure  to  call  Mr.  Charlton  papa,  Dick| 
my  mother  said  to  me,  oonfidentially.  *  You  don't  know  how 
good  he  is,  and  how  fond  he  is  prepared  to  be  of  you.     Whe» 


A  MAN*S  LETTER, 


nor 


foa  tre  going  to  bed,  to-night;  you  will  go  up  to  him  tcij 
nicely  and  say,  **  Good-night,  papa." 

'*  I  listened,  committed  myself  to  nothing,  and  revolved 
the  matter  all  day.  Bedtime  came,  I  kissed  my  mother,  who 
looked  anxious,  and  went  up  to  my  new  father,  who  sat 
beaming  benignly  upon  me  through  his  double-barrelled  eye^ 
glass. 

** '  Mr.  Charlton,'  I  beg  an,  *  mother  says  you  arc  my 
father,  and  I  am  to  call  you  so.  Now,  that  cannot  be.  No 
fellow  can  have  two  fathers,  and  I  would  rather  not' 

"Dick  1 "  my  mother  exclaimed,  in  dismay. 

*'  *  Never  mind,  Dick,'  Mr.  Charlton  said,  laughing  ;  *  I 
like  his  honesty  and  his  logic.  So  1  am  not  to  be  adopted  ai 
father,  Dick — what  then  is  it  to  be  ?  " 

**  *  Thank  you,  sir.  You  were  governor  of  a  Western  State 
some  years  ago,  mother  says,  and  if  you  wouldn't  mind,  I 
should  like  to  call  you  governor.  Lots  of  fellows  I  know, 
call  their  fathers  that,  regular  out-and-out  fathers,  you  know. 
May  I,  sir  ? ' 

**  *  Certainly,  Dick.  Governor  let  it  be,  by  all  means,'  re- 
•ponded  Mr.  Charlton,  still  laughing,  and  so  we  shook  hands, 
and  that  delicate  matter  was  settled  once  and  for  all. 

"  I  need  not  tell  you  what  sort  of  father  I  found  ;  no  mac 
could  have  loved  his  own  son  better.  My  poor  mother  died, 
and  from  that  hour  his  affection  seemed  to  redouble.  AC 
that  I  have,  or  am,  I  owe  him.  Men  don't  much  talk  or 
even  think  of  this  sort  of  thing,  but  the  tie  between  us  is  one 
itrong  and  deep.  All  the  same,  I  am  the  plague  of  his  like  , 
my  Arab  propensity  for  folding  my  tent  and  silently  stealing 
away,  my  Bohemian  instincts  when  at  home,  are  alike  the 
bother  of  his  existence.  It  came  very  near  being  a  serioui 
matter,  last  year,  when  I  went  with  you  all  to  the  Pclar  Sea. 
The  Honduras  Expedition  he  will  not  even  hear  of,  and  thai 
is  why,  principally,  I  have  fitted  up  this  P'^binson  Crusoe 
castle  out  in  Shadd'^k  Bay,  to  keep  my  reading  and  sketcn^ 


so 


A  MAN'S  LETTER, 


ing  out  of  his  sight  The  place  was  formeily  a  sort  of  bea 
•on  for  fishers  and  whalers,  but  long  ago  was  deserted,  and 
is  as  isolated  as  heart  can  wish.  He  wants  me  to  take  to 
one  of  the  learned  professions,  his  own  for  instance — law — 
and  stay  respectably  at  home.  A  man  ought  to  settle,  he 
says,  at  seven-and-twenty ;  and  so  he  ought,  I  suppose,  but 
tiiere  must  be  vagabond  blood  in  me,  for  settling  is  the  last 
thing  1  want  to  think  of.  I  tried  it  once  for  six  months,  and 
grew  restless  and  cross-grained  as  the  devil.  Since  he  came 
into  the  great  Charlton  fortune,  his  monomania  for  keef-'ng 
me  at  home  has  grown  to  giant  proportions.  He  has  be 
come  rabid — a  man  of  one  idea,  and  that  is  why  he  has  sent 
lor but  I  have  not  come  to  that  yet. 

"  It  ought  to  be  flattering,  this  rampant  affection,  and  isi 
and  I  love  the  dear  old  fellow ;  still  I  cannot  reconcile  my- 
self to  the  idea  of  ranging  in  this  dull-as-death  little  country 
town,  and  settling  down  to  turnips  and  prize  pumpkins, 
short  horns,  steam  plows,  and  top  dressing,  militia  drill,  and 
cider  drinking.  Ungrateful,  I  know,  but  as  Dr.  Watts  re- 
marks, '  it  is  my  nature  to.' 

'^  Have  ycu  ever  visited  St.  Ann's  ?  It  is  about  ninety 
miles  from  New  York,  and  if  ever  the  doctors  send  you  to 
grass,  turn  you  out  to  vegetate,  not  live,  by  all  means  come 
here.  It  is  a  finished  town.  Thirty  years  ago  it  stopped 
growing,  and  has  never  advanced  an  inch  since.  And  for 
that  very  reason  it  is  a  charming  place,  with  old  homesteads 
eraboweied  in  trees,  spreading  orchards,  golden  and  ruddy 
with  fruit,  old-fashioned  gardens,  where  all  sweet-smelling 
things  run  riot,  yellow  fields  of  waving  grain,  long,  white, 
lonely  roads,  sleepy,  Sunday  stillness  in  perpetuity ;  and 
at  its  feet  the  everlasting  sea,  wash,  wish,  washing.  And 
among  its  other  products,  Vestal  virgins  abound ;  the  num 
b^^  of  old  maids  is  something  pathetic.  They  muster  strong 
en  Sunday  afiernoons,  up  to  the  whi*e  meeting-house  on  the 
hill— onr;  ceases  to  view   polygamv    as  an   evil;,  vhen    one 


A  MAtr*S  LETTER, 


n 


irmlchcs  them  on  their  winding  way,  as  faded  aid  out  of  datt 
M  the  bonnets  they  wear,  with  patient  hands  folded  over 
unappropriated  hearts. 

"'  Once  St.  Ann's  was  a  place  of  bustle  and  business,  anJ 
sent  out  its  fleet  of  whalers  yearly,  and  in  those  days  John 
Charlton  n^ade  his  fortune,  built  a  house,  died,  and  left  all 
to  his  younger  brother.  When  my  day  conies,  1  ani  told,  1 
am  to  have  it  all,  if,  meantime,  I  behave  myself,  settle  to  law 
and  monotony,  marry  a  wife,  and  stay  at  home. 

"  Marry  a  wife  !  My  dear  Englehart,  do  you  remember — 
I  think  you  do — that  girl  who  gave  lessons  at  your  sister's  in 
New  Orleans  ?  A  tall,  Madonna- like  maiden,  a  sort  of  human 
calla  lily,  with  serene  eyes,  passionless  and  pure  ?  Your  little 
nieces  called  her  mademoiselle,  nothing  but  raademv^iselle^ 
just  as  they  dubbed  me  *  Uncle  Dick ' — you  remember  ?  W  ell, 
she  is  here.  Her  name  is  Eleanor  Charlton,  and  she  is  what 
a  girl  with  such  eyes  should  be.  Her  father  was  Mr.  Charlton's 
cousin,  once  removed,  and  he  has  sent  for  her  to  come  and 
spend  the  summer.  Her  mother  is  with  her,  a  majestic 
matron ;  bland  as  sweet  oil,  but  with  an  eye  of  stone,  and  a 
pair  of  cruelly  tight  lips.  I  see  her  daughter  wince,  some- 
times, under  that  stony  glance.  They  came  three  days  ago, 
and  I  met  them  one  evening  in  the  grounds.  There  were 
mutual  exclamations — '  Mademoiselle  ! '  '  Uncle  Dick  ! 
then  a  burst  of  laughter,  a  charming  blush  on  the  lady's 
part,  explanations  on  the  gentleman's,  and  an  adjournment 
to  dinner.  After  dinner  there  was  music  \  she  olays  Bach, 
Beethoven,  Mozart,  this  poor  Miss  Eleanor,  who  * »  a  music- 
teacher  by  profession.  1  don't  affect  the  piano-forte  as  a 
rule,  but  I  like  such  playing  as  this.  The  violin  came  down 
tfter  a  little,  and  the  governor  beamed  ihrough  his  lenses 
snone,  scintillated,  was  radiant.  Mrs.  i.harlton  knows  how 
to  keep  her  dignified  flice  in  order,  but  1  caught  nioie  that 
once,  a  *  Bless  you  my,  children '  look,  out  of  ;he  hard, 
RU^teie  eyes      As  for  mademoiselle --I    like  hei,  Englehart. 


T 


P  A  MAN'S  LETTER, 

I  aiwajrs  knew  I  should  like  her  if  I  got  a  chanco,  tad— 4 
caught  myself  revolving,  last  night,  the  practicability  %i  Ifff 
oil  land,  of  tax-paying,  land-draining,  stock-breeding,  horse- 
breaking,  cradlerocking,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  If  any  one 
could  make  it  worth  while,  it  would  be  this  young  woman. 
I  know,  and  she  knows,  and  we  all  know,  what  she  is  here 
for.  Bless  the  governor!  'Take  her,  you  dog,  and  be 
happy ! '  shines  forth  in  every  wrinkle  of  his  dear,  kindly, 
handsome  old  face.  But  she  holds  herself  very  far  off,  aiad  I 
like  her  all  the  better  for  it.  And  I  don't  know.  And 
don't  you  fill  my  place  in  the  scientific  corps  yet  awhile — 


« 


I  left  off  last  night  rather  abruptly,  and  to-day  the  plot 
has  thickened.  I  laugh  by  myself  as  I  write.  Two  more 
have  come  this  afternoon.  1  have  not  been  presented  yet, 
but  look  for  that  ceremony  to-morrow.  Young  ladies  ol 
course,  cousins  again,  udt  this  time  so  very  far  removed  that 
the  cousinship  will  hardly  do  to  swear  by.  Once  upon  a 
time,  a  Catherine  Charlton — so  runneth  the  legend — married 
a  Southern  planter,  and  the  *  consekins  of  that  manoovre,-  to 
quote  Sam  Weller,  was  a  daughter.  This  is  the  elder  of  the 
two.  The  Southern  planter  died,  and  in  the  fulness  of  time 
the  widow  wedded  again,  a  Cuban,  with  a  yard  long  pedifree 
and  quantities  uf  blue  blood,  and  another  daughter  saw  the 
light.  These  half-sisters  are  our  new  arrivals.  Father  and 
mother  dead,  wealth  lost  in  civil  war,  earning  their  living  in 
Mrw  York  in  the  old  weary  ways,  sewing  and  teacliing. 
Oh  I  these  poor  little  women  who  work  1  It  is  bi  *aking 
butterflies,  putting  humming-birds  in  harness.  My  soul  stin 
with  an  mfinite  compassion  for  them  all. 

Yesterday  afternoon  I  went  out  with  my  henchman, 
Dat*dy,  and  drifted  about  on  the  high  seas,  lary  and  happy, 
my  mind  a  blank,  my  conscience  at  ease,  my  digestion  a^ 
its  best,  until  the  red  sun  set,  and  the  whue  mcK>n  reuses. 
r^  Idy — not  christened  Daddy  by  his  godfathers  and  god 


A  MAlf*S  LETTER, 


S3 


[ity^flffr 

ig,  horie- 
f  any  one 
I  woman, 
le  is  here 
;,  and  be 
3ir,  kindlj, 
oflf,  a^d  I 
Dw.  And 
while — 

ly  the  plot 
Pwo  more 
jcntcd  yet, 
ladies  ol 
noved  that 
;e  upon  a 
[ — married 
oovre,'  to 
ider  of  the 
|ss  of  time 
pedifree 
ir  saw  the 
.ther  and 
|r  living  in 
teadiing. 
breaking 
soul  stin 

mchman, 
|d  happy, 
lestion  at 

\yQVk  rcise. 
id  god 


mothers  in  baptism,  but  yclept  *  Daddy-long-legs,  by  sundry 
small  boys,  for  obnous  reasons — Daddy  took  the  i  ars  in  the 
gray  of  the  evening  and  rowed  me  home.  The  house  was 
all  alight,  the  windows  all  open,  music  and  woman's  laughtei 
floated  out  into  the  pleasant  summer  night.  I  stood  under 
some  trees  and  saw  them  all — a  pretty  picture.  Dinner  was 
over,  the  governor  and  Mrs.  Charlton  sat  comfortably  in  a 
corner  at  cards.  Miss  Charlton  was  at  a  little  table  making 
something — point  lace  I  think  she  calls  it.  She  almost 
always  wears  black,  which  becomes  her,  and  very  few  orna- 
ments. She  needs  none,  and  knovs  it  perhaps ;  the  *  flower 
face,'  the  *  stilly  tranquil  manner,'  the  coils  of  silky  chestnut 
hair — they  are  enough.  She  looked  a  household  sprite,  a 
fireside  fairy,  an  angel  of  hearth  and  home,  sittii  g  there.  T 
declare  to  you,  the  old  strong  ir.stiict,  older  than  original 
sin — '  it  is  not  good  for  man  to  be  alone ' — awoke  within  me 
for  the  first  time.  And  then  a  shining  vision  came  between 
me  and  her,  something  in  white  and  blue,  a  stage  fairy,  with 
loose  golden  hair,  and  a  waist  like  the  stem  of  a  wineglass. 
I  looked  for  the  other  and  saw  a  little  girl,  a  bright  brownie, 
with  black  eyes,  and  a  real  girl's  bewitching  laugh.  Strange 
to  say,  I  felt  no  desire  to  intrude  my  rough  masculine  pres- 
ence among  all  that  fair  femininity.  I  stood,  I  gazed,  1 
admired,  for  a  while,  and  then  I  came  up  to  my  room.  And 
here  I  am  ;  and  you,  most  puissant,  enjoy  the  benefits  of  my 
passing  misogyny.  It  is  pleasant  to  have  these  y  jung  women 
in  the  house,  it  brightens  thing?,  and  there  \'.  always  Shad- 
deck  Light  when  the  sweetness  begins  to  cloy.  It  is  part  of 
my  coarse-grained  nature,  I  suppose,  but  even  as  a  boy  I 
never  had  a  taste  for  lollypops ;  and  as  a  man,  a  little,  a 
Tcry  little,  of  young  ladies'  society  goes  a  great  way.  They 
BO  seldom  have  anything  to  say  for  themselves,  and  if  they 
are  pretty  to  look  at,  as  they  generally  are,  it  is  a  pity  to  spoil 
the  illusion.  Miss  Charlton  can  talk,  but  mostly  she  doesn't ; 
I  find  het  silent  and  have  a  suspicion  that  she    hinks,  and 


"Tf- 


34 


BEFOKE  BREAKFAST, 


reads  Ruskin  and  Stuart  Mill.  As  for  the  others-— one  it  a 
fluffy  haired  peri,  and  the  second  a  dark  fairy,  '  too  low  for  « 
high  praise,  too  brown  for  a  fair  praise,  and  too  1  ttle  for  i 
great  praise  ! '     Further  particulars  in  my  next. 

'*  If  there  is  anything  I  can  do  for  you,  old  boy,  cominan  J 
me.  I  can  lan  up  at  any  time,  there  is  nothing  to  detain 
me.  In  spite  of  all  the  nonsense  I  have  set  down  here,  tho 
Central  American  Expedition  is  very  near  this  heart,  and 
the  sooner  you  get  that  dislocated  limb  in  working  order  the 
better.  I  hope  nothing  will  occur  to  postpone  things  j  Sep- 
tember will  be  a  good  month  for  the  start  My  one  regret  is, 
the  vexation  my  going  will  be  to  the  governor ;  but  to  stay 
here,  idly  pottering  around,  playing  croquet,  drinking  after- 
noon tea,  fiddling  in  time  to  the  piano,  driving  about  in 
basket  carriages,  and  waiting  for  dead  men's  shoes — that 
way  madness  lies.  Drop  me  a  screed;  a  man  may  Wi'te 
with  one  ankle,  may  he  not  ?    And  believe  me,  as  ever^ 

*<  Richard  Caryl  Ffrinch." 


CilAi'  I'ER  V. 


BEFORE   BREAKFAST. 


|T  is  lovely,"  says  Vera,  "  it  is  delicious,  it  is  all  m/ 
fancy  painted  it,  it  is  the  Castle  of  the  Sleeping 
Beauty.  An  j  that  reminds  me,  Dot,  I  wonder  it 
the  Sleeping  Beauty  is  still  asleep,  or  whether  he  came  homcj 
at  all  last  night !  " 

"Very  uncivil  of  him  in  any  case,"  '.^esponds  M'ss  Light 
wood,  "  not  to  put  in  an  appearance  eve",  for  one  moment, 
knowing  we  were  expected,  too.  Mrs.  Charlton  took  care 
to  impress  upon  me,  with  evident  /iti^faction,  that  it  w»s  hi' 


BEFORE  BREAKFAST, 


35 


^ne  ii  i 
ow  for  « 

tie  for  a 

ominani 
o  detain 
here,  thf? 
eart,  and 
order  the 
igsi  Sep- 
regret  is, 
It  to  sUy 
ing  after- 

about  in 
loes — that 
may  wk'tc 

cer, 

MNCH." 


IS  all  m/ 
te  Sleeping 

wonder  il 
:ame  hoinw 

[I'ss  Light 
vnoment, 
took  care 

It  it  WIS  his 


fery  first  absence  since  their  arrival.  .  But  a  little  ludenesi, 
more  or  less,  what  can  it  signify  to  two  persons  in  our  ft*- 
tion  in  life  ?  " 

Miss  Lightwood  yawns  sleepily  as  she  says  it,  and  tumi 
over  for  another  nap.  She  is  in  bed,  and  looks  rather  pret- 
tier there  than  out  of  it,  certain  fine  lines  of  discontent  that 
mar  the  expression  of  her  waking  hours,  being  effaced  by 
slumber.  Her  cheeks  flushed  rose-pink,  her  fair  hair  all 
loose  and  damp,  her  blue  eyes  humid  with  drowsiness.  She 
does  noi;  look  as  though  last  night's  defection  preyed  upon 
her.  Vera,  always  one  of  the  earliest  of  early  birds,  stands 
at  the  window  looking  out  over  waving  trees,  rainbow  pas- 
tures, velvet  slopes  of  sward,  as  if  she  could  never  Icok  hei 
fill.      • 

"  After  all.  Dot,  it  must  be  a  blessed  thing  to  be  rich, 
and  have  a  home  like  this.  Do  be  just  as  nice  to  Captain 
Ffi^ench  when  you  meet  him  as  you  know  how ^" 

But  Dot  is  serenely  asleep,  and  Vera  takes  her  hat  and 
makes  her  way  down-stairs,  and  out  of  the  house.  It  was 
almost  dfirk  last  evening  when  they  arrived,  and  in  the  bus- 
tle of  wcicome  and  dinner,  and  the  first  shyness  of  <i)eeting 
perfectly  unknown  people  in  a  perfectly  unknown  «iuuse,  she 
hxs  seen  very  little.  But  this  moiiiing  it  has  broken  upon 
her,  a  very  dream  of  beauty.  Her  Southern  home  nas  faded 
into  a  ha^y  memory ;  for  years  the  poor  child  has  known 
nothing  but  the  stony,  unbeautiful  city  st  reets.  And  here  are 
wildernesses  of  greenery,  here  are  great  stone  urns  ablaze 
with  color,  here  are  beds  and  beds  of  mignonette,  of  pansy, 
of  geranium,  here  are  thickets  of  roses,  and  trees  of  fuchsia, 
here  are  statues  gleaming  whitely,  and  gold  a.id  silver  fish 
in  mimic  ponds.  Over  her  head  is  rising  the  dazzling  July 
sun,  afar  off  she  catches  the  flash  of  the  sea,  md  st^ells  its 
salt,  strong  sweetness — the  sea  that  she  has  never  looked 
upon  but  in  pictures  and  dreams. 

*'01\!"  lighs  Vera,  i"..   <j  rapUire  of  ji^ladness.  "it  ig  to« 


J« 


BSFOKB  BXEAJCFAST. 


n 


i 


much.     How  will  we  ever  go  back  to  New  York  ?    Hea? ei 
must  be  like  this  " 

She  banishes  the  untimely  thought  of  New  York.  She  ii 
•Uteen,  the  summer  is  before  her,  Dot  is  pretty  and  Captaiu 
Fftench  is  only  mortal.  Which  is  Captain  Ffiench's  window 
she  wonders,  and  is  he  sluggishly  sleeping  away  this  paradis 
iacal  morning  ?  It  is  joy  enough  to  be  alive  on  such  a  day 
A  thousand  little  birds  are  singing  around  her,  the  perfume 
of  heliotrope  and  rose  is  everywhere,  she  breaks  off  sprays 
M  she  goes  and  makes  a  bouquet,  singing  without  knowing 
that  she  sings : 

**  *  AIm  I  how  easily  things  go  wrong ; 
A  sigh  too  much,  or  a  kiss  too  long. 
And  there  follows  a  mist  and  a  sweeping  rain. 
And  life  is  nerer  the  same  again.' " 

Singularly  inappropriate,  but  she  gives  no  thought  to  what 
she  is  singing.  Nothing  could  ever  go  wrong  in  this  Eden. 
There  would  always  be  the  birds,  and  the  trees,  and  the  flow- 
ers, and  the  sea — Oh  1  the  sea  I  she  must  go  there  and  look 
upon  it  for  the  first  time. 

She  goes,  and  it  breaks  upon  her  with  a  sense  of  might 
and  loveliness,  that  holds  her  silen*  and  spell-bound. 

**  It  is  like  a  dream — like  a  dream  !  "  she  whispers,  "  Oh  I 
you  great,  beautiful,  fearful  sea  ! "  It  is  better  after  all,  than 
the  green  loveliness  of  the  land,  and  she  goes  on  and  down, 
until  she  stands  where  the  shining  baby  waves  creep  up  to 
her  very  feet.  It  is  a  sort  of  creek,  and  a  boat  is  moored  to 
a  stake — a  pretty  boat,  all  white  and  blue,  with  a  smiling, 
saucy  face  painted  on  the  stern,  and  the  name  in  gilt.  The 
Niiie. 

"  Ah,  yes,"  Vera  says  aloud,  nodding  to  the  Nixie,  "  you 
are  very  pretty,  and  very  smiling,  and  very  deceitful,  just  like 
the  water  itself — mermaids,  and  undines,  and  kelpies,  and 
the  rest  of  you  fishy  people  always  are.     But  I  wish  1  rould 


^ 


Heafei 

She  II 

Captaiu 

nrindow 

paradii 

h  a  day 

perfura« 

af  sprayi 

knowing 


It  to  what 

lis  Eden. 

\  the  flow- 

and  look 

of  might 

rs,  "  Oh  1 
r  all,  than 
,nd  down, 
eep  up  to 
iioored  to 
smiling, 
gilt,  The 

xie,  "you 

I,  just  like 

lilies,  and 

ill  I  rould 


KRFORE  BREAKFAST, 


37 


go  oat  in  yon,  all  .he  same,  and  have  a  sail  :efore  breiJihiat 
I  never  had  a  sail  in  my  life,  before  breakfast  or  after." 

**  /am  going  out,"  says  a  voice,  **  this  is  my  boat.  I  will 
take  you,  if  you  like." 

Vera  looks  around  astonished.  A  man  is  standing  on  the 
bank  above  her,  a  young  man,  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
calmly  regarding  her.  She  is  not  nervous,  nor  easily  discon- 
certed as  a  rule — she  is  too  much  of  a  child — and  she  is  not 
disconcerted  now. 

*<  Was  I  talking  aloud  ?  I  didn't  know  it  What  was  1 
saying  ?  " 

He  comes  down  the  bank  and  proceeds  to  anmoor  the 
boat. 

*'  That  you  would  like  a  sail  before  breakfaet.  I  am  going 
for  a  sail  before  breakfast,  and  J  will  be  delighted  if  you  will 
come." 

ITie  boat  is  unfastened  now,  the  oars  shipped,  and  he 
stands  waiting.  It  is  a  strong  temptation — how  sunlit,  dim- 
pled, lovely,  the  water  looks.  And  it  is  such  a  pretty  boa 
And  it  could  not  be  much  harm.  And  the  woman  who  hesl 
tates  is  proverbially  lost.  She  lifts  her  dark  child's  eyes 
with  all  %>,  child's  frank  fearlessness,  and  looks  at  hiu):  He 
is  good-looking,  he  has  pleasant  eyes,  and  a  smile  Vera  likes. 
He  looks  like  a  gentleman.  He  holds  out  his  hand.  "  Comet" 
he  says,  and  she  goes. 

"  I  wonder  what  Dot  will  say  ?  "  she  thinks,  "  I  wonder 
what  Dot  will  do  ?  It  cannot  be  much  harm  to  go  for  a  sail 
1  wonder  who  he  is  ?  " 

Of  the  world  and  its  ways  Vera  ktiows  nothing,  absolutely 
nothing.  She  is  as  utterly  ignorant  of  les  convenances  as 
though  she  were  six  instead  of  sixteen.  This  is  entirely 
new,  and  beyond  measure  delightful,  that  is  all  she  knows ; 
it  smacks  of  adventure,  and  there  has  been  a  dreary  dearth 
of  adventure  in  little  Vera's  life.  And  he  is  very  good-look- 
Jng,  she  observes,  glancing  sideways  under  her  thick  black 


II 


I'    t*' 


38 


BEFORE  BREAKFAST, 


Ushes-^ta/i,  and  brown,  and  strong,  with  bnght  d«kik  e>«% 
and  a  subtle  smile.  Subtle,  in  the  sense  that  Vera  does  not 
quite  understand  it ;  he  has  rather  the  look  of  laughing  at 
ber,  and  she  is  prepared  to  resent  it  if  she  Ands  it  so.  H^ 
ought  to  say  something  ;  this  silence  is  growing  embarrass* 
ing.  She  leans  over,  as  every  heroine  she  ever  read  of  does, 
and  dips  her  fingers  in  the  water.  It  is  delightfully  cool,  and 
iKr  summer  morning  clouds,  like  rolls  of  white  wool,  are  re< 
fleeted  in  the  clear,  green  depths.  Over  yonder  the  sun,  just 
risen,  turns  all  the  east  crimson  and  flushes  the  girl's  face 
with  rosy  gilded  light. 

"  Oh  I "  she  sighs  aloud,  "  it  is  like  being  in  a  new  world  I 
It  is  like  being  born  again.  I  never  imagined  anything  like 
it.  How  delicious  this  breeze  is,  how  salt  it  smells.  How 
i  wish  Dot  were  here." 

"Who  is  Dot?" 

*'  My  sister.  What  island  is  this?  Oh,  what  a  dear  little 
house  1  And  some  one  lives  in  it  actually,  out  here  in  the 
middle  of  the  ocean.     I<ook  at  the  smoke." 

"  I  see.  That  is  Shaddeck  Light,  and  although  a  light- 
house no  longer,  some  one  lives  there.  I  know  Ihe  person, 
and  if  you  like  we  will  stof  there  before  we  go  back." 

**  Will  you  though  ?  I  should  like  it  of  all  things.  Sudi 
a  dot  of  a  cottage  ;  I  once  had  a  doll's  house  nearly  as  large. 
But  it  must  be  lonely,  I  should  think.  Who  lives  there, 
please?" 

"  Richard  Ffrench." 

»•  Richard  Ffrench  1 — Rich — ard  Ffrench  1 "  Vera's  brown 
•fBA  open  in  wide  wonder.  "  Mr.  Charlton's  step-son  ?  Yog 
never  mean  to  say  it  is  that  Richaid  Ffrench  ?  " 

**  Never  heard  of  any  other,  and  he  is  Mr.  Charlton's  step< 


•on. 


»» 


\'";ra  regards  him  gravely  for  a  moment.  The  sail  has  not 
been  hoisted,  he  is  pulling  steadily  against  the  tide,  in  loi^ 
ttr  ^n^r  strokes,  as  if  he  wer«  enjoying  himself. 


BEFORE  BREAKFAST, 


does  not 
ughing  at 
so.      He 

lubarrass- 
d  of  does, 
cool,  and 
ol,  are  re< 
\  sun,  just 
girl's  face 

vr  world  I 
thing  like 
is.     How 


dear  little 
ire  in  the 

h  a  light- 
le  person, 
k." 

s.  Sucii 
^  as  large. 

es  there, 


a's  brown 
on?  Yog 

on*8  step< 

ilhas  not 
in  lop^ 


•«  Y0M  know  Richard  Ffrcnch  ?  • 

•*  I  have  that  honor." 

"  Captain  Ffrench— he  is  a  captain,  is  h?  net    * 

*' Captain  one?,  captain  always,  I  suppose.  He  ^umi* 
man  Jed  a  company,  I  believe,  during  the  late  war.  tie  if 
generally  ilubbed  Captain  Dick." 

"Well  then.  Captain  Dick,  being  Mr.  Charlton's  loni 
should  live  at  Charlton  Place,  should  he  not  ?  " 

"  Naturally,  if  he  were  like  any  one  else,  which  he  is  not. 
AU  half  civilized  people  have  barbarous  instincts,  and  can 
never  live  in  decent  dwellings.  Ffrench,  for  some  such  rea* 
son,  spends  most  of  his  time  here." 

"  What  does  he  do  ?  " 

Captain  Dick's  acquaintance  shrugs  his  shoulders. 

"Who  knows  ?  He  smokes  a  good  deal,  and  loafs  about 
among  tlie  fishermen.  1  have  never  heard  that  he  does  any- 
thing more  useful." 

"  Is  he  there  now  ?  " 

*'  Not  likely.  He  goes  home  to  sleep,  as  a  geneial  thing, 
though  I  have  known  him  to  spend  nights  at  Shaddeck  Light 
Your  interest  does  Captain  Dick  much  honor." 

"  Well,  you  see,"  says  Vera,  nowise  abashed,  "  I  am  down 
from  the  city  to  spend  the  summer  at  Charlton,  and  as  I 
have  not  seen  him  yet,  it  is  natural.  One  is  always  inter- 
ested in  the  people  one  is  to  live  with,  you  know." 

"Undoubtedly.  1  heard  that  two  young  ladies  had 
arrived  by  yesterday's  late  train.  Such  an  event  makes  a 
stir  m  St.  Ann's.  But  it  is  odd  you  have  not  seen  Ffrench, 
I  know  he  went  home  last  night ;  1  saw  him  go." 

"He  did  not  think  it  worth  while  coining  to  the  drawing- 
room  then.     Very  likely  it  is  as  Dot  says " 

"What  does  Dot  say?" 

**  Never  mind,"  with  dignity  ;  "  perhaps  being  half-civil 
bed  accounts  for  it." 

Or,  perhaps  he  was  afraid.     Two  lovely  young  la/!iet 


«i 


40 


^^FOiiE  BREAKFAST, 


^  rtry  formidable  sort  of  n^nni    r 
""^^T^f^"-'^^^  one  UsWiU  .„«  „ 

•"'^ed  upstair/to  bed!^'        "'~"  '''  '>«'''»  afct^   and 

"At  aJI  events."  gav«  v« 

^•M  of  Miss  Chadtor  ^;™XT''  "'"'  -^  »« 
»ora-,o  „,y  sister-last  n,thrh  ^  "  '"°*"  »"d  «» 
got  on  remarkably  .e^  ^l^^T^  ^^  ^^-or  bay, 
t^n  Ffrench-s  comings  andVn  "*"*"  «  »"•     Ca,v 

to  Dot  and  me.»       ^    ^^  «"'"«''""  »«  of  „o  conseque"^ 

*  CertainJy  not     BesM      u    • 
and  a  ve^  good  riddance  i3houlf^"^^*^°« '«'«"=%. 
fc"ow  like  that  is  always  a  mistfcJ    ""^C    ""  ^'^^  ""'"'"g 

f-  are  not^sS  r;;--'^.  "'^^^  <>%  were  , 
«a'rs  to  bed.  would  you  C'    L         ''°"""''  »"eak  up 
suddenly.     .-I  don-e  believe  one     ^T'  '^"S"'  ""«»  <>« 
.ng  mc.     He  isn't  bashfutle  isn't  Tit  '""  '^^^  '"=«"  'o"- 
""^d  he  doesn't  sneak  to  his  ^l'""'^'  ''^  '»"''  half-ci.. 
and  I  mean  to  like  him.    x  ,ik7"„  {'''"T  all  about  him, 
5«--y.  and  I  like  soldiers ;  he     a  hu "        '>    "^  ''  »  »<"' 
"•^  W  an  explorer,  and      ADo«t         "'  ""^  ^  '°^^  *"«<="; 
you  turning  „s  ro^nd  for?    aT^''     "^^^     '''"^  «''«  ar, 
"  We  are  going  to  visit  A.^  ^""/o.ng  back  ?  •• 

«^.  and  JweVed  :   *    b'oL  bT  """■     ^^  '^  ^ 

jf-ti;;rri:;;tit^t7-^---' 

Ffrench-s  name  X  bid  you  "^/.r '^'^  '»''"«' '    ^  Dick 

^j  DZy:z  fitrrr  r"  '-^  '=-°"». 

eyes  dance  over  everything  in  a  sln7      ,'  '*"'"'•  ''^ 
fte  ptcture  on  the  chimney  piece.  *  *"**  P^""'  '  »««. 


BEFORE  BREAKFAST, 


41 


al  man  ct 


raJd,   and 

w&s  not 
;r  said  to 
inor  have 
ill.  Cap. 
^sequence 

t  directly, 
\.  hulking 
of  young 

»ly  were  ! 
ineak  up 
ings  out 
cen  tell- 
half- ci*r. 

ut  him, 
lis  a  sol* 

unters ; 
[hat  are 

IS  not 


carel 
Dick 

[rious, 
)righl 
|apo« 


••  It  is  Eleanor  t  **  she  exclaims,  "  it  is  Miss  Charllon  1** 

*<l8  it  indeed?"  says  the  young  man.  ''Then  Mill 
Charlton  is  a  pretty  girl.  Will  you  sit  down  ?  Don't  yoa 
imell  coffee  ?  Amuse  yourself  with  tlie  books,  and  I  will 
go  and  get  you  some." 

He  goes.  Vera  watches  turn  curiously.  The  coffee  is  a 
happy  thought,  it  smells  uncommonly  good,  and  her  water 
trip  has  made  her  painfully  hungry.  In  two  minutes  she 
has  turned  over  every  article  in  the  room — then  her  escort 
enters  with  a  tray  and  a  cup  of  the  fragrant  berry. 

"  I  hope  it  is  to  your  liking,"  he  says,  "  and  strong  enough. 
What  do  you  think  of  Ffrench's  growlery  ?  *■ 

"  I  think  you  are  very  much  at  home  in  it,"  retorts  Vera ; 
''  what  do  you  suppose  Captain  Ffrench  will  say  to  this  in- 
vasion ?  " 

"Really  I  have  not  troubled  myself  to  suppose.  He 
ought  to  feel  honored — I  would  in  his  place.  I  never  envied 
any  fellow  before  this  morning.  As  to  my  being  at  home, 
I  mostly  am — everywhere." 

So  Vera  thinks.  His  tall  stature  and  bread  shoulders 
seem  to  fill  the  little  room.  He  partakes  of  no  coffee  him- 
self —he  obtains  permission  instead  to  light  one  of  Captain 
Dick's  pipes,  two  or  three  dozen  of  which  are  ranged  on 
shelves.  He  sits  on  the  door-step  and  smokes.  The  sun 
is  high  in  the  sky  by  this  time,  and  the  first  ciisp  coolness  it 
going  ot!l 

The  seven  o'clock  bell  rings  in  St.  Ann's  for  the  laborers. 
A  few  little  boats  float  past  on  the  rippleless  tide.  Soft, 
limpid  waves  wash  over  the  pebbles,  Sunday  stillneHi  it 
over  all. 

**  It  is  heavenly  1 "  says  Vera,  with  a  long-drawn  breath. 
It  is  the  third  or  fourth  time  this  norning  that  she  has  made 
the  same  remark,  but  there  is  simply  nothing  else  to  be  said* 
"  I  never  spent  such  a  morning,  but  I  am  ready  to  go  now 
whenever  you  like." 


m 


BEFORE    BREAKFAST, 


Her  coinpi^nion  rises. 

*'YeSy"  he  says,  "it  will  be  as  well  not  to  ket  Ffrendl 
catch  us  here,  and  I  suppose  he  will  be  on  hand  shortly." 

"Would  he  mind?" 

"  Weil,  he  is  something  of  a  bear,  but  it  is  not  that 
Living  in  the  same  house  he  will  see  enough  of  you  before 
long,  while  I — I  wonder  if  I  will  ever  see  you  again  ?  " 

"  I  don't  see  why  not,"  replies  straightforward  Vera,  "il 
you  are  Captain  Ffrench's  friend.  St.  Ann's  and  Charlton 
Place  are  not  such  an  immensity  apart." 

"  No.     And  if  I  come  you   will  be  glad  to But 

there  are  three  young  ladies  ;  I  shall  not  know  for  whom  to 
ask." 

He  says  it  innocently,  and  Vera  does  not  see  the  m^sli- 
cious  gray  eyes  that  are  laughing  at  her,  under  the  straw 
hat. 

**My  name  is  Vera,"  she  answers,  in  all  good  faith,  "and 
— yes — I  think  I — shall  be  glad  to  see  you.  And  I  should 
like  you  to  take  Dot — to  take  my  sister  out  as  well,  the 
next  time.  Her  chest  is  not  very  strong,  and  it  would  do 
her  good.     Will  you  ?  " 

"  Only  too  happy,  if  Miss  Dot  will  do  me  that  honor. 
But  I  am  not  sanguine — you  will  forget  me.  Ffrench  will 
monopolize  you,  the  three  of  you.  No  one  else  will  have  a 
ciiance.     You  see  I  know  that  fellow." 

"  I  thought  you  said  he  was  bashful,  mortally  afraid  of 
f^jung  ladies."  > 

"  Oh,  well,  that  is  only  at  first.  It  wears  off,  and  then 
that  sort  of  people  are  the  worst — always  in  extremes.  Bash- 
ful fools,  or  selfish  beasts.  And  then,  you  know  you  like 
him,  you  love  him,  you  adore  him,  and  all  he  rest  of  it. 
No,  I  nave  no  hope." 

"Still  I  wouldnt  despair  too  soon,  if  I  were  you,"  sayi 
Vera,  smiling  coquettishly,  the  instinct  awakening  in  her  ai 
mouse-morder  awakes  in  the  playful  kitten.      "  Come  just 


lawiUBiaa 


BBFORR  BREAKFAST 


43 


lid  of 

then 

iasb- 

Iik« 

)f  it. 


the  same,  and  we  will  see.  Two  at  a  time,  1  shoolv  think^ 
are  as  many  as  even  Captain  Dick  can  attend  to.  Here  wc 
are.  I  never  enjoyed  anything  so  much,  and  I  am  sure  1 
am  very  much  obliged  to  you.^^ 

"  T^e  enjoyment  has  been  mine.  Let  me  help  you  isp 
the  bank.     Ah " 

The  puzzling  smile  deepens  into  a  laugh.  Vera  followf 
his  eye,  and  sees  coming  toward  them  Mr.  Charlton,  hef 
sister,  and  Eleanor.  They  are  within  the  Charlton  grounds ; 
Vera's  hat  is  off,  she  is  swinging  it  by  its  rosy  ribbon;*,  all  the 
soft  silky  curls  are  pushed  off  her  warm  forehead.  Dora,  in 
a  pale  blue  morning  dress,  she  notices  with  pleasure,  is  at 
her  prettiest.  Miss  Charlton  looks  amused  and  surprised,  and 
Mr.  Charlton  beams  upon  her  as  he  draws  near.  Evidently 
she  has  not  done  wrong. 

*  What  I "  he  says,  "  my  little  Vera,  and  abroad  wiih  the 
lark— ^«  a  lark,  if  I  may  say  so.  Your  sister  thought  you 
were  lost,  but  I  knew  better.  And  you  look  like  a  rose 
after  it."  (Vera's  cheeks  are  as  dully  sallow  as  cheekr  can 
well  be.)  "No  need  to  introduce  j'^?//  to  Dick,  I  see;  he 
has  done  it  himself  Dora,  my  dear,  you  have  not  met  him 
— my  son,  Richard  Ffrench.  Dick,  my  boy.  Miss  Dora 
Lightwood."  * 

And  then  it  all  flashes  upon  Vera — the  deception",  the 
shameful  deception.  He  has  drawn  her  out,  he  has  taken 
her  in,  he  has  been  laughing  at  her  all  the  morning.  Iv  is 
Captain  Dick  himself,  and  no  other.  She  turns  upon  hits  in 
3.  flame  of  wrath — yes,  he  is  laughing  at  her  even  ncv. 

<(  You — you  are  a  wreith  t "  she  cries,  and  turns  ifsA  iKai 
keadlong  intc  the  house. 


sayi 
;r  ai 

just 


t 


44 


AFTSF.  9P.HAKFASt 


CHAPTER  VI. 


AFTER   BREAKFAST. 


T  is  two  hoijrs  later,  and  the  hali  thermometer  standi 
at  ninety.  There  is  not  a  breath  stirring,  the  rosei 
droop  their  sweet,  heavy  heads,  the  great  beds  of 
geraniuih  and  gladioli  blaze  in  the  yellow  glare.  The  sea 
off  there  looks  white  and  molten,  the  leaves  of  the  trees 
hang  motionless.  It  is  ihe  sultriest  of  July  mornings,  and 
Vera,  coiled  up  on  the  marble  of  the  wide  hall  floor,  has  laid 
aside  her  indignation  for  the  present,  as  she  has  every  super- 
fluous article  of  dress.  She  proposes  resuming  both  pres- 
ently, when  the  day  cools  off"  a  little,  for  she  feels  she  has 
been  disgracefully  imposed  upon,  but  at  present  it  is  too  hot 
for  dignity.  The  most  ferocious  Corsican  in  such  a  state  of 
the  atmosphere  would  be  obliged  to  forego  vendetta ;  so, 
though  her  enemy  lounges  within  a  yard  of  her,  Vera  is  in 
too  wilted  a  state  for  vengeance  or  reprisal. 

Miss  Charlton,  in  a  white  dress,  a  white  rose  in  her  hair,  « 
magazine  in  her  hand,  looks  cool  and  fresh  as  a  rose  herself. 
She  is  one  of  the  fortunate  few  who  always  look  cool ;  she 
is  never  flushed,  nor  heated,  nor  freckled,  nor  sunburned. 
She  is  trying  to  read,  but  breaks  off  with  a  smile  to  listen  to 
Vera's  girlish  chatter,  for,  however  warm  this  young  person 
may  be,  she  is  seldom  too  warm  to  talk.  Dora  reclines  on  a 
lounge,  languidly  fanning  herself  and  monopolizing  Captain 
Ftrench.  Mrs.  Charlton  is  also  present,  her  ponderous  fomi 
filling  a  large  wicker  chair,  her  eyes  half  closed  but  all-see- 
ing, silent  but  all-hearing,  her  tight  lips  sealed,  her  eyebrowi 
contiacted.  She  looks  uncommonly  like  a  fat  family  mousef 
with  eye  and  paw  sharpened,  ready  to  pounce  in  one  sound 
leu  lea^t  on  her  victim.     This    irreverent  comparison  ii 


4PTER  BRSAJtfAsf 


Dora%  who  with  ^ale,  pretty  face,  slightly  flushed,  wl^  tfta* 
eyes  shining,  with  rosy  lips  dimpling,  is,  Mrs.  Charlton  feels 
a  foeman  worthy  of  her  steel,  in  the  door-way  the  bone  of 
contention,  the  stalwart  young  heir  presumptive,  for  whom 
all  these  fair  women  have  donned  plumes  and  war-paint, 
•tands,  his  masculine  vanity  elate  and  tickled,  immensely 
amused  at  the  situation,  and  wondering  if  Abdul  Aziz  feeU 
anything  like  this  in  the  midst  of  the  harem.  Miss  Light- 
wood  is  certainly  doing  her  best,  and  Dora's  best  is  pretty 
nearly  perfect.  According  to  her  light,  *his  young  lady  is 
conscientiously  determined  to  do  her  duty — the  very  utmost 
she  can  do  for  herself  and  her  sister.  For  Dora  Lightwood 
forms  no  plans  in  which  that  gipsy  sister  does  not  share. 

'*  I  am  a  selfish  little  brute,"  Dora  calmly  admits,  coni> 
muning  with  her  own  heart.  "  I  am  mercenary,  I  am  unscm* 
jiulous  in  a  good  many  things,  I  have  a  horrid  temper,  I 
give  my  whole  mind  to  my  clothes,  I  hate  people,  as  a 
general  thing,  but  I  love  little  Vera.  I  don't  know  why,  I 
am  sure.  I  never  tried  to,  1  never  wanted  to ;  loving  any 
one  is  a  mistake  ;  all  the  same,  I  am  awfully  fond  of  Vera. 
And  if  a  rich  man  proposed  to  me  and  made  it  a  condition 
that  I  should  part  from  Vera,  why,  I  wouldn't  marry  him.  I 
cannot  say  more  than  that." 

She  cannot.  To  refuse  wealth  for  the  sake  of  any  human 
being  is,  in  her  eyes,  the  highest  of  all  tests  of  love.  As  she 
Uei  Ih  re,  in  the  '*  golden  bower  "  of  her  fair  floating  hair,  in 
h*r  pale  blue  wrapper  with  its  delicate  trimmings,  she  ii 
busily  building  castles  in  Spain — substantial  castles,  with  a 
French  cook  in  the  kitchen,  a  French  maid  in  my  lady's 
chamber,  three  toilets  per  diem,  a  house  uptown,  near  Cen- 
tral Park,  a  pew  in  a  fashionable  church,  houses,  carriages, 
black  drivers  in  livery,  and  Charlton  Place  ilways,  for  at 
least  tliree  weeks  ev^ry  August,  after  Ne-vport  and  tht 
mountains  have  been  "done."  Somewhere  in  the  back- 
ground, faint  and  far  off,  is  a  tall  young  man  r  f  the  rausculai 


i 


46 


AFTER  BREAKFAST. 


Cliristianity  oi^ti^  ready  to  s!gn  unlimiied  checks,  and  Xyc 
much  absorbed  in  scientific  things,  and  explorations,  and 
Hugh  Miller's  books,  to  push  himself  unbecomingly  forward 
in  the  way  of  his  wife's  amusements.  And  Vera  shaii  go 
to  school  for  a  year  or  two,  to  the  most  exclusive  and  exten< 
sive  school  whose  portals  greenbacks  can  unlock^  and  the 
child  shall  walk  in  silk  attire,  and  currency  have  to  spare. 
Then,  when  she  is  finished,  they  will  make  the  grand  tour — a 
winter  in  Paris,  a  Carnival  and  Easter  in  Rome,  they  will 
climb  an  Alp  or  two,  and  finish  with  a  season  in  Lon- 
don  

"My  dear  Miss  Lightwood,"  says  the  suave  voice  of  Mrs. 
Charlton,  "how  many  years  is  it — I  really  forget — since 
your  father  died  ?  Ah  I  what  a  shock  his  death  was  to  me. 
In  youth  we  had  been  so  intimate.  Is  it  eighteen  or  twenty 
now?" 

Dora  awakes  from  her  gorgeous  dream.  She  looks  across 
at  her  kinswoman,  more  cat-like  than  ever,  with  her  con- 
tracted eyes  and  feline  smile,  and  is  ready  for  hostilities  in 
half  a  second. 

'*  Odd  that  you  should  forget,  is  it  not,  since  you  were 
such  bosom  friends  ?  It  is  precisely  nineteen  years.  Old 
Cat  1 "  Dora  says  inwardly,  "  as  if  I  didn't  see  your  drift.  I 
haye  kept  big  Dick  Ffrench  ^oo  long,  have  I,  and  youi 
Eleanor  is  out  in  the  cold." 

"  Ah  1 "  Mrs.  Charlton  responds,  her  ample  bust  sweilifig 
with  a  fat  sigh,  "  nineteen  years.     How  time  flies." 

"  Very  true.  That  is  an  aphorsm  I  have  seveial  timet 
heard  before." 

"  And  you,  dear  child,  you  were— let  me  see — no,  you 
could  not  have  been  twelve,  because- — " 

The  hialicious  eyes  contract  a  trifle  more  as  they  transfix 
the  audacious  little  flirt  on  the  lounge.  Captain  Ffrench  \t 
out  of  his  depth,  but  feels  vaguely  and  alarmedly  that  thif 
converpalion  is  meant  to  be  unpleasant. 


AFTER  BREAKFAST, 


^ 


"  Because  that  would  leave  me  at  the  present  moment^ 
I  am  the  woist  person  at  figures  in  the  world — Captaio 
Ffrench,  nineteen  and  twelve,  how  much  is  that  ?  " 

"  One  and-twenty,  I  should  «av,  in  your  case/'  responds, 
gravely,  Captain  Ffrench 

"  My  father  died,  my  dear  Mrs.  Charkon,"  says  Dora, 
with  a  rippling  smile,  "  nine — teen  years  ago.  I  was  at  the 
time  seven  years  old,  only  seven,  I  assure  you ;  the  family 
Bible  is  still  extant.  Last  birthday  I  was  six-and-twenty. 
Six — and — twenty,  fully  two  years  older  than  Eleanor,  I  do 
believe.  And  then  I  lost  my  poor  dear  mamma  so  early. 
Things  might  have  been  so  different  if  she  had  lived.  It 
must  be  so  nice  to  have  a  mamma  to  look  out  for  one,  to 
point  out  whom  to  be  attentive  to,  and  whom  to  avoid,  in 
this  deceitful  world — to  lay  plans  for  one ^" 

"  If  one  is  not  capable  of  laying  plans  for  one's  self— veiy 
true,"  says  the  other  duellist,  firing  promptly.  "  A  mother  in 
many  cases  would  be  a  superfluity.  To  be  tossed  about  the 
world  and  learn  one's  own  sharpness  from  hard  experience 
1  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Charlton,  did  you  address  me  ? '' 

"  Would  you  not  like  to  come  out  and  visit  the  fernery  ?  '• 
says  Captain  Ffrench,  hastily,  in  horrible  alarm  lest  this  blood- 
less battle  shall  be  renewed,  "  or — or  is  it  too  warm  ?  " 

' '  Not  in  the  least  too  warm,"  smiles  Dora ;  "  warmth  ii 
tny  element.  Vera,  hand  me  my  sun  hat,  please.  Nelly, 
dear,  what  are  your  favorite  flowers — 1  shall  fetch  you  » 
bouquet." 

Site  ties  the  broad  tulle  hat  over  the  loose  crinkling  hair, 
the  small,  pretty  face,  and  light  blue  eyes,  gleaming  witii 
mirth  and  malice. 


'•  It'i  a  very  fine  thing  to  be  mother-in-law 
To  a  very  magnificent  three-tailed  Bashaw," 


r 


•he  sings  under  her  breath  as  she  goes,  but  Mrs.  Charlton 
hears  her  and  P ashes  a  wrathful  glance  after  lier  enemy.     She 


i 


ill 


(Hill 


m  AFTER  BREAKPAST, 

has  been  routed  this  bout,  but  hostilities  have  only  com* 
mcnced ;  she  feeU  she  is  an  old  and  able  \  eteran,  and  thej 
laugh  best  who  laugh  last.  As  she  thinks  it,  Miss  Light- 
wood's  shrill  peal  comes  back  to  her  from  out  the  blaze  of 
sunshme  into  which  she  goes  with  Captain  Dick.  Dora's 
laugh  is  not  her  strong  point,  it  is  elfish  and  metallic,  and 
does  not  harmonize  at  all  with  the  rose-hued  mouth  and 
baby  prettiness  of  face. 

"That  horrid  old  woman  1"  she  exclaims,  "  did  you  evei 
hear  anything  so  spiteful,  Captain  Ffrench  ?  And  all  because 
you  happened  to  be  civil  to  me.  Don't  put  qn  that  innocent 
face,  sir,  and  pretend  you  don't  know." 

**  By  George  I "  says  Captain  Dick,  "  how  uncommonl} 
flattering.  I  must  endeavor  to  distribute  my  civility  with 
more  impartiality  hereafter.  You  gave  her  as  good  as  she 
brought,  however.  Miss  Lightwood — that  must  be  a  soothing 
recollection." 

"  It  is,"  answers  Dora,  setting  her  teeth  viciously  ;  "  ever 
since  I  can  remember  I  a; ways  hit  hard."  She  doubles  up 
her  small  fist  instinctively,  and  Captain  Ffrench  eyes  it  with 
gravity. 

"  Yes,"  he  says,  "  I  should  think  a  blow  of  that  battering- 
ram  would  settle  almost  any  sort  of  combatant.  But,  perhaps, 
it  is  morally,  not  physically,  that  you  pitch  into  people. 
Moral  whacks  are  so  much  easier  to  bear." 

"  Do  you  think  aj  ?  "  laughs  Dora.      "  Judging  by  youi 

xceedingly  uncomfortable  expression  a  few  moments  ago,  I 

r<Mild  never  think  it      Honestly,  it  was  in  abominably  bad 

taste  this  pugilistic  encounter  in  your  presence ;  but  what 

«as  I  to  do  ?    You  heard  yourself — it  was  she  who  began  it." 

**  And  was  defeated  with  great  slaughter  !  It  was  a  per- 
fectly fair  fight,  Miss  Lightwood,  and  I  rather  enjoyed  it 
1  bespeak  the  office  of  bottle-holder  when  the  next  match 

Cannes   off.      For   I   infer   this   contest   for   the "     He 

pauses  and  looks  down  ;  Dora  looks  up,  and  at  the  mutiud 


I 


AFTER  BREAKFAST. 


49 


ips, 
>le. 

>ui 

r,  I 

iad 
lat 


glance,   so  full   of  meaningi  both   explode    into  a  frank 
laugh. 

*'  Championship  1  "  says  Miss  Lightwood,  **  for  what  else 
could  it  be  ?  Oh !  Captain  Ffrench,  conceit  is  the  vice  of 
your  sex — be«rare  of  it.  Is  this  the  fernery  ?  How  cool  and 
gieen  it  looks  ]  and  a  fountain-  -is  not  the  plash  of  the  falling 
waters  delicious  ?  That  reminds  me — if  I  get  up  to-morrow, 
will  you  lake  me  to  your  enchanted  island,  all  unbeknown 
to  Madame  Charlton  ?  Early  rising  is  not  my  prominent 
virtue,  but  Vera  paint'^'^1  the  delights  of  her  water  er^ursion 
in  such  glowing  col  ,  that  I  think  it  is  worth  one's  morning 
nap — for  once." 

Captain  Ffrench  protests  he  will  be  only  too  blessed,  too 
honored.  In  reality  he  is  more  or  less  bored.  For  the  past 
half  hour  he  has  been  sighing  inwardly  for  the  sea-girt  seclu- 
sion of  Shaddeck  Light,  his  books,  and  drawing-board.  Not 
that  he  hasn't  enjoyed  the  skirmish  too,  and  the  conversation 
of  this  piquant  little  woman  of  the  world  is  spicy  and  novel. 
But  enough  is  enough — of  the  first  principles  of  flirtation  he  is 
absolutely  ignorant ;  he  has  not  had  his  after-breakfast  smoke, 
he  has  not  had  his  every-day,  rain-or-shine,  constitutional 
walk.  He  wonders  what  Eleanor  is  doing.  How  diflferent 
she  is  from  this  pert  (poor  Dot's  ready  audacity  is  pertness  in 
his  eyes),  forward,  sharp-voiced  ^'Ule  person,  who  talks  so 
much  vapid  inanity.  He  can  see  Eleanor  with  her  slightly 
bent  head ;  her  clear  face,  her  large,  sweet,  iJerious  eyes, 
thoughtful  and  a  little  sad.  For  there  is  always  a  touch  of 
sadness  about  Eleanor — why,  he  wonders?  Her  mother 
nags  her,  no  doubt ;  she  is  a  hard  old  vixen,  and  can  be 
deusedly  unpleasant  when  she  likes  ;  but  somehow  he  thinks 
the  trouble  lies  deeper  than  that.  She  has  to  work  hard, 
but  she  has  the  earnest  nature  of  women  who  do  not  shirk 
work,  who  even  find  in  work  their  greatest  sjlace  wher  life 
goes  wrong. 

**  Poor  girl,"  he  thinks,  and  quite  a  new  sensation  stiff 


m 


I 


5C 


AFTER  BREAKFAST, 


■omcwhere  within  Captain  Dick's  broad  chest,  lie  is  not 
the  sort  of  man  to  fall  too  easily  a  victim  to  the  tender  pas* 
sion,  but  if  he  were,  and  time,  and  propin.]uity,  and  a  drowsy 
country-house  given,  a  tall  serene  girl,  with  gentle  voice  and 

waya,  all  womanly  sweetnesses  and  graces And  then 

the  shrill  treble  of  Miss  hightwood  breaks  upon  his  dream,  as 
her  own  was  broken  in  upon  a  while  ago,  and  claims  him  for 
*Jie  time  as  her  own. 

In  the  hall,  Mr.  Charlton,  blandest,  suavest  of  old  time 
gentlemen  and  courteous  hosts,  entertains  Mrs.  Charlton  with 
gossip  about  the  neighborhood,  and  details  of  the  fme  old 
families,  the  Huntings,  the  Deerings,  the  Howells,  of  the  old 
Puritan  breed,  who  came  over  from  Connecticut  in  1650; 
and  whose  fathers  made  fortunes  in  the  halcyon  days  from 
1828  to  1845,  when  St.  Ann's  sent  out  her  fleet  of  "blubber 
hunters,"  and  dark-eyed  foreign  sailors  reeled  drunken  about 
its  quiet  streets.  Vera  nestles  near  Eleanor's  chair,  and  re- 
lates her  adventure  of  the  morning,  at  which  Miss  Charlton 
laughs. 

"  Was  it  not  a  horrid  shame ! "  cries  Vera,  indignantly, 
**  and  I  never  suspected — no,  not  once — he  kept  such  a  vir 
tHOus  and  unconscious  face.  He  knew  that  fellow  I  he  was 
a  bashful  fool,  and  he  sneaked  upstairs  to  bed.  Yes.  very 
bashful,  T  should  think ;  his  mode  ly  will  prove  fatal  some 
day,  if  he  doesn't  take  care  I  " 

Eleanor  laughs  again. 

**  It  was  unpardonable — it  was,  really.  I  hope  yon  did 
not  commit  yourself  to  any  very  awful  extent,  Vei^  ?  " 

"  I  asked  him  a  great  many  questions  about  Captain 
Ffrench,  I  know,"  says  Vera,  still  hot  and  resentful,  and  see- 
ing nothing  to  laugh  at ;  '*  and  he  had  not  a  good  word  to 
say  of  himself.  I  daiC  say  he  was  right,  it  is  a  subject  on 
which  he  orgH  to  be  informed.  Still,"  with  a  sudden  in 
consequert  change  of  tone,  "I  think  be  is  nice — don** 
fon?" 


I 


I 


AFTEk   BREAKFAST. 


SI 


"  Very  nice' 

**  And  handsome  ?  " 

«« Well— rather." 

"And  awfully  clever?  Now  don't  say  you  Jon't  kno% 
because  it  is  parent  to  the  dullest  observer.  He  talks  like  a 
book — when  he  likes." 

"Then  he  doesn't  always  like,  for  I  have  heard  him  when 
he  talked  more  like  Captain  Dick  f  french  than  Emerson  or 
Carlyle." 

"  Ah  1  I  don't  know  them.  All  the  same,  he  is  clever. 
He  is  a  musician ^" 

"  He  plays  the  violin  tolerably,  as  amateurs  go." 

**  And  he  draws  beautifully.     And  you  needn't  be  so  cri* ! 
cal.     He  has  your  picture  over  the  mante)  at   ShaddecK 
Light." 

"  Nonsense  1 "  Eleanor's  cheek  flushes  suddenly,  and 
Mamma  Charlton,  with  one  ear  bent  to  her  host,  the  other 
turned  to  her  daughter,  pricks  up  the  near  ore  to  catch 
more. 

"  It  is  there — nonsense  or  not — a  crayon,  as  like  you  as 
two  peas,  flattered  if  anything.  And  there  is  a  date.  *  New 
Orleans,  May,  1861.'  So  it  seems.  Miss  Slyboots,  you  and 
Captain  Dick  are  \ery  old  friends." 

"  Oh  !  noy  no.  I  never  spoke  to  him  in  my  life  until  four 
days  ago." 

Vera's  large,  dark  eyes  lift  and  look  at  her.  They  are  c)  ea 
of  crystal  clean  ess,  the  one  beauty  at  present  of  her  face, 
down  through  which  you  seem  to  see  into  the  absolute  wKi*c 
truth  of  a  child's  soul. 

"  1  am  telling  you  the  truth.  Vera,"  she  says,  her  cheek* 
gtill  hot,  "  though  you  look  as  if  you  doubted  it.  Some  yean 
ago  I  met  Captain  Ffiench  at  a  house  in  New  Orleans,  where 
I  gave  music  lessons.  He  came  with  an  uncle  of  the 
ctiildren,  and  they  adopted  him  as  an  uncle  aiso.  The  motliet 
was  a  French  lady.     To  the  children  1  was  simply  M idemoi 


ss 


AFTER  BREAKFAST. 


lelle    be  wu  Uncle  Dick     But  I  never  kneir  1^  nanM^ 
neve   «poke  to  him  till  I  met  him  here." 

VcTa  drops  back  on  the  marble.  There  is  a  shade  ok 
annoyance  on  Flleanor's  face,  as  if  half  provoked  at  having 
this  confession  extorted.  Her  mother  is  listening,  unctuous 
and  well  pleased. 

"  You  evidently  made  a  silent  impression  then,"  says  Vert 
"  I  said  this  mcrning,  *'rhat  is  Miss  Charlton's  picture;' 
and  he  said,  'Then  Miss  Charlton  is  a  very  pretty  girL 
Here  conies  Dot,  alone  ;  I  wonder  what  she  has  done  with 
him  ?    Dot  I     Where  have  you  lefl  Captain  Ffrench  ?  " 

"/.m  I  my  brother's  keeper?"  replies  Dora,  sauntering 
in,  a  j(reat  nosegay  in  her  hand.  "  Here  is  your  bouquet, 
Nell}.  Captain  Ffrench  cut  the  flowers,  and  I  arranged 
them  I  am  a  milliner,  you  know,  by  profession,  and  have 
artistic  tastes  ' 

"  Ever  so  inany  thanks — your  taste  is  exquisite." 

••  But  where  is  Captain  Ffrench  ?  "  persists  Vera,  rising  on 
her  elbow,  **you  are  responsible  for  him — he  was  last  seen 
alive  in  your  company.  There  is  no  old  well  out  in  the  gar- 
den,  is  there,  that  you  could  drop  him  into,  d  la  Lady  Audley  ? 
And  besides,  he  isn't  a  husband  in  the  way " 

"Vera,  dear,"  says  Dora,   sweetly,  "you  are  horrifying 

Mrs.  Charlton,  with  your  wild  talk  of  husbands.     My  sister 

—she  is  only  sixteen — talks  dreadful  nonsense  sometimes. 

Indeed,  it  is  a  family  failing — not  on  the  Charlton  side,  of 

course." 

**  But,  Captain  Dick — Captain  Dick  1  what  has  become  ol 
CaptanDick?"  reiterates  Vera. 

"  He  has  gone  to  St.  Ann's  for  letters,"  says  Dora,  resum- 
ing her  place  on  the  lounge.     **  As  it  stands  about  one  hun 
dred  and  fifty  out  in  the  sun,  yof .  may  imagine  how  fascina 
ting  he  finds  your  society,  when  he  prefers  to  it  a  blazing 
three-mile  walk      Now  don't  talk  to  me  please,  T  tm  going 
to  take  a  p»x)." 


AFTER  BREAKFAST, 


5S 


ing 

ster 

leg, 

of 


lm« 


Which  she  does  ahnost  at  once,  her  mite  of  &  hand  under 
her  rose-leaf  cheek,  sleeping  as  a  baby  sleeps,  with  softl/ 
parted  lips. 

"  How  pretty  your  sister  is,"  Elean jr  says,  geitly. 

"  Yes,  is  she  not  ?  "  Vera  answers,  \  roudly,  "  and  so  much 
admired  wherever  she  goes.  People  turn  in  the  streets  to 
look  after  her,  and  Madame  Le  Brun  says  she  never  had  a 
forewoiiiari  naif  so  popular  before.*" 

"  You  are  not  in  the  least  like  her." 

**  Oh  I  no,  not  in  the  least.  I  am  the  Ugly  Duckling,  yoi 
know.     There  is  generally  one  in  every  hatching." 

"  And,  like  the  Ugly  Duckling,  will  turn  by  and  by  into  a 
stately  swan,"  says  Eleanor,  smiling  down  on  the  dark,  thin 
face,  with  its  great  Murillo  eyes. 

"  No,"  VeiA  says,  shaking  her  head  with  a  sigh,  "  suck 
transformations  are  only  in  fairy  tales  and  pantomimes.  I 
im  the  Ugly  Duckling  and  1  shall  never  be  the  swan.  But  I 
don't  mind.  I  would  rather  have  Dot  pretty  than  be  pretty 
myself.  * 

Here  Mrs.  Charlton  rises,  excuses  herself,  and  sails  away, 
Mr.  Charlton  departs  to  write  letters  in  his  study,  Eleanor 
resumes  her  magazine,  and  Vera  lapses  into  a  day-dream, 
still  coiled  on  ^he  floor.  The  day-dream  changes  gradually 
into  a  real  dream,  in  which  she  is  floating  over  sunlit  seas 
with  Captain  Dick,  past  fairy  isles  all  dotted  witii  small  gray 
nouses,  until  they  finally,  and  rather  unexpectedly,  come  to 
anchor  somewhere  in  the  upper  part  of  Fifth  Avenue,  before 
Mrs.  Trafton's  front  door.  Captain  Dick  moors  his  craft  to 
the  brown-stone  steps,  and  is  going  up  to  tfng  the  bell, 
when 

"  Three  for  the  governor,"  says  the  pleasant  voice  of 
Captain  Dick,  in  the  flesh,  "  one  for  you,  Miss  Charlton,  and 
half  a  dozen  for  myself.  None  for  you,  Miss  Ligttwood, 
none  for  you,  Miss  Vera,  although  I  sur)p9se  it  if  rather 
toon  fc  vour  five  hun  Ircd  to  bCj^iu." 


54 


ArTEie  OREAKPAST, 


Vera  rubs  her  eyes,  and  sits  up.  He  hands  Eleanor  bdi 
letter,  and  Dora,  who  is  also  awake,  sees  with  one  quick, 
keen  glance,  that  the  writing  is  a  man's. 

"I  did  not  expect "  Eleanor  begins  in  surprise.    Then 

her  voice  falters,  fails,  she  looks  at  the  envelope,  and  growi 
pale.  She  lifts  her  eyes,  and  casts  a:'  anxious  glance  at 
Captain  Dick,  but  his  countenance  is  impassive.  Her  lettci 
is  postmarked  St.  Ann's,  the  chirography  unmistakably  mas' 
culine,  but  there  is  no  curiosity  in  his  face. 

"  I  must  deliver  the  governor's,"  he  says,  and  goes.  Miss 
Charlton  rises  slowly,  and  goes  upstairs.  Dora's  eyes  fol- 
low her.  The  surprise,  the  falter,  the  i  allor,  the  postmark 
— Dora  has  seen  all.     Dora  has  eyes  that  see  everything. 

**  Now  I  wonder  what  you  are  about  ? "  muses  Miss 
Light  wood,  "and  who  our  unwelcome  corresponds  t  is? 
Are  you  a  fiery  Southern  lover  come  to  guard  your  own,  oi 
are  you  a  little  bill  ?  " 

Little  bills  are  the  bane  of  Dora's  life,  but  this  is  no  dun. 
It  is  short  and  affectionate  enough  to  establish  the  accuracy 
of  Miss  Lightwood's  first  guess.     And  it  closes 

*'  I  inow  you  will  resent  my  disobeying  orders,  but  xcsent  or  not, 
1  mttst  see  you.  Do  not  be  too  hard  on  a  poor  devil,  Nelly — it  is  eight 
months  since  we  met.  See  you  I  simply  must.  I  will  be  on  the  othef 
side  of  the  boundary  wall  (where  Mr.  Charlton's  peach-trees  flcirieh) 
about  seven  this  evening.  I  will  wait  until  nine,  as  I  donH.  know  tl)f 
Charlton  dinner  hour.  Do  not  fail  I  expect  a  scolding,  but  a  scold 
mg  iron  yon,  my  darling,  will  br  sweeter  thaii  words  of  honey  frcrx 
moUmv.  E,  a" 


'>: 


IN  THE.    COOL  OF  THE  EVENINO. 


s% 


CHAPTER  VIL 


IN  THE   COOL  OF  THE   EVENINO. 


'.*-" 


I  AY  has  passed,  evening  has  begun.  It  ii  six  o'clock| 
and  the  white  quivering  heat  is  spent,  a  breeze 
rises  fresh  from  the  Atlantic,  flutters  every  lace 
curtain,  and  blows  through  every  open  window  and  door  of 
the  fine  old  Charlton  Mansion.  Over  in  St.  Ann's  the  noisei 
of  the  day  are  done  ;  down  in  the  warm-flushed  west  the  sun 
— who  has  nobly  done  his  duty  all  day,  and  baked  the  earth 
to  powder — is  sinking  out  of  sight.  The  flowers  lift  their 
hanging  heads,  there  is  a  rustle  and  a  flutter  through  all  the 
leafy  trees,  the  birds  chirp  as  they  go  to  roost,  and,  revived 
by  siesta  and  bath,  the  ladies  of  the  household  in  the  dusky 
seclusion  of  their  chambers  are  robing  for  the  great  event 
of  the  day — of  all  our  days — dinner. 

*<  Dot,"  says  Vera,  tiptoing  around,  and  straining  her  neck 
to  get  a  view  of  the  small  of  her  back,  where  she  wishes  to 
plant  a  bow,  "  I  am  afraid  it  is  of  no  use.  I  am  afraid  it  is 
to  be  Eleanor." 

*'  What  is  of  no  use  ? "  asks  Dora,  for  this  remark  hai 
been  made  (like  the  generality  of  Vera's  remarks)  apropos 
of  nothing.  But  she  smiles  too,  as  if  she  understood.  Their 
rooms  adjom,  the  door  of  communication  is  open,  and  both 
are  before  their  respective  mirrors. 

•  *  About  Captain  Ffrench.  Bother  this  sash  !  I  can't  get 
it  to  cume  straight.  I  think  he  must  be  falling  in  love  with 
her  Dot.  He  has  her  picture,  as  I  told  you,  over  there  in 
that  funny  little  light-house,  and  he  has  a  way  of  looking  at 
ner What  are  you  laughing  at  ?  " 

**At  your  perspicuity,  dear,  at  your  profound  knowledge 
oi  the  ways  and  manners  of  Richard  Ffrench.     This  Mg, 


S6 


tS  TUB  COOL  or  THE  SVBtmiG. 


11  f^< 


m 


folemn  Dick  who  thinks  we  aie  all  dying  for  him.  So  yov 
are  convinced  I  have  no  chance  ?  " 

"  Well,"  says  Vera  reluctantly,  **  you  see  everything  was  in 
her  favor.  You  did  not  have  a  fair  start,  Dot.  Eleanor  wai 
here  three  days  ahead,  and  a  good  deal  can  be  done  in  three 

days "     Vera  breaks  oflf,  for  Dora  is  laughing  iramodei- 

ately.  The  simplicity,  the  earnestness  of  little  Vera  are  of 
comical. 

**Vera,  child,  you  will  be  the  death  of  mel  Do  you 
really  think  I  have  come  down  here  to  marry  Dick  Ffrench 
— if  I   can.     What  a  humiliating  idea.     Not   but  that   it 

would  be  worth  while "     She  glances  wistfully  out  over 

lawn  and  garden,  green  glade,  and  dense  shrubbery.  **  Yes, 
it  would  be  worth  while,  and  what  I  can — I  will  do." 

**  Worth  while  ?  "  repeats  Vera,  "  I  should  think  so.  It 
is  like  the  Garden  of  Eden.  Old  Mr.  Charlton  must  be 
awfully  rich.  Dot." 

"  A  millionnaire,  my  child." 

"  Ah  1 "  sighs  Vera — a  long-drawn  sigh,  *'  a  millionnaire  ! 
What  a  rich,  respectable,  beautiful  sound  that  has.  And  to 
be  the  step-daughter-in-law  of  a  millionnaire,  or  even  the  half- 
sister  of  the  step-daughter-in-law.     What  bliss ! " 

"  Are  you  not  getting  things  a  little  mixed  ?  "  Dora  in- 
quires, but  Vera  j-ays  no  attention.  The  bow  is  tied  now, 
geometrically,  on  her  spinal  column,  and  she  is  leaning  with 
folded  arms  on  the  sill,  half  out  of  the  window.  A  great  wis- 
teria  trails  with  its  purple  plumes  all  about  the  casement,  and 
makes  a  setting  for  the  black  curly  head  and  brown  mignoji 
face. 

**  There  he  is  now  "  she  exclaims,  involuntarily.  Cap- 
tain Dick  perhaps  hears,  for  he  looks  up.  He  takes  off  htfl 
hat,  takes  out  his  cigar,  and  puts  /n  a  penit?r.t,  an  agonized 
expression. 

"Am  I  forgiven?"  he  asks,  imploringly.  "If  you  only 
knew  the  day  of  misery  I  have  passed,  with  a  sin  repented 


W  THE   COOL  OF  THE  EVXmNG. 


Af  but  unpardoned,  on  my  conicience  I  And  the  tocsi  i  of 
the  soul  is  about  to  sound — be  merciful  while  there  ii  yet 
time.  How  am  I  to  consume  lamb  and  mint  sauce,  wither- 
ing under  your  displeasure  ?  " 

Dora  does  not  catch  Vera's  shrilly  indignant  rejoinder— 
•he  is  too  far  out  of  the  window.  The  conscience -stricken 
one  down  below  wears  an  aspect  of  desolation,  and  tries  a 
■econd  appeal,  this  time  with  more  success.  Vera  is  relent- 
ing, to  judge  from  the  softened  tone  of  her  voice — th« 
remorse  of  the  culprit  is  not  without  its  effect.  Then — •*  I 
wish  you  would  come  down,"  says  Captain  Dick,  still  mildly 
plaintive.  "  I  haven't  a  soul  to  speak  to,  and  I  am  never 
more  alone  than  when  alone.     Come." 

"  Come  into  the  garden,  Maud,"  sings  Vera ;  **  it  is  more 

than  you  deserve,  still "    There  is  a  swish  of  silk,  a  waft 

of  wood  violet — Vera  takes  the  last  three  stone  steps  with  a 
jump,  and  is  at  Captain  Ffrench's  side. 

Dora  watches  them  with  a  well  satisfied  smile  until  they 
disappear. 

"Yes,"  she  thinks  again.  "It  would  be  worth  while. 
And  then  the  satisfaction  of  out-manoeuvring  that  old  double- 
chinned  witch  of  Endor.  My  age,  indeed !  The  imperti* 
nence  of  trying  to  make  me  out  thirty-one,  in  Dick 
Ffrench's  presence.  Eleanor  is  to  be  princess  consort,  and 
she  is  to  reipjn  monarch  of  ail  she  surveys  at  Charlton.  Ah, 
well !  "  Miss  Lightwood  nods  to  her  own  pretty  face  in  the 
glass ;  "  this  is  to  be  a  drawn  battle,  and  all  I  ask  is  a  fail 
field  and  no  favor.  I  will  back  myself  to  win  against  Elea- 
nor Chariton  any  day,  in  spite  of  the  picture  in  the  light- 
house, and  her  three  days'  start  in  the  race ." 

Miss  Lightwood,  looking  very  charming  in  one  of  the  cos- 
tumes purchased  with  the  three  hundred  dollars,  goes  down- 
gtairs  and  finds  her  host  and  Mrs.  and  Miss  Charlton 
already  there.  Vera  and  Captain  Dick  are  still  absent,  but 
fome where  near,  f^r  Vera's  joyous  laugh  comes  every  non 


S8 


ttl  TBS  COOL  or  THE  kybihsq. 


ih 


and  then,  mingled  with  the  boom  of  Dick's  meHow  but 
P/  ssently  they  appear,  a  sort  of  laurel  crown  aborning  tbd 
Captain's  hat,  and  Vera  looking  like  a  young  BacchautA 
with  clusters  of  trailing  grape  tendrils  tangled  in  her  dark, 
crisp  hair. 

*'  Let  us  crown  ourselves  with  roses  before  they  fade, ' 
quotes  Captain  Dick.  "  Miss  Vera  has  given  me  brevet 
rank — the  laurel  wreath  which  posterity  holds  in  store  for 
me  has  been  anticipated.  Peace  is  restored  we  have 
buried  the  hatchet,  we  have  smoked  the  pipe — two  or  three 
pipes — of  peace " 

"  Speak  for  yourself  1  "  retorts  Vera.      "  /  d'^n't  smoke, 
although  I  am  half  a  Cuban.     We  have  not  kept  you  wait 
ing,  have  we  ?    It  is  all  Captain  Dick's  fault." 

Mrs.  Charlton  frowns.  Vera  is  not  the  rose,  but  she 
grows  near  that  dangerous  flower.  And  whatever  the  heir's 
sentiments  towards  the  elder  sister  may  be,  his  liking  for  the 
younger  has  been  patent  from  the  first. 

"  How  admirably  Captain  Ffrench  and  Vera  get  on,"  she 
says  smilingly,  as  she  goes  into  dinner  with  her  host,  and 
Mr.  Charlton  laughs  in  his  genial  way. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  he  says,  "  Dick  was  always  remarkably  fond 
of  children.     And  she;  is  really  a  bright  little  sprite." 

"She  is  sixteen  years  old,"  says  madam  sharply,  but  the 
liint  is  lost.  They  are  in  the  dining-room,  and  all  other  pro- 
jects merge  themselves  in  dinner.  It  is  a  large  apartment, 
coul  and  airy,  with  a  carpet  like  greenest  moss,  pictuiei 
of  fruit  and  flowers  on  the  tinted  walls,  sea-green  silk  and 
frosted  lace  curtains.  The  appointments,  the  silver,  the 
glass,  the  courses  are  ixcellent.  The  Charlton  cook  may 
not  be  a  cordon  bleuy  out  she  understands  her  art,  and  the 
result  is  eminently  satisfactory.  It  is  years,  Dora  thinks, 
with  a  deep  sigh  of  complacency,  since  she  has  dined  before. 
She  has  eatsn  to  live — no  more.  Something  of  an  ep  icurei 
in  aildition  to  her  other  virtues,  is  Miss  Lightwood     Het 


IN  THE   COOL   OF  THE  EVENING. 


M 


tfdstic  taste  takes  in  \nth  real  pleasure  the  snow;  napery, 
the  tall  epergne  of  choice  flowers,  the  ruby  and  amber  tintt  of 
tile  wines. 

Mr.  Charlton  is  a  very  king  of  hosts,  an  ideal  old  time 
gentleman,  genial  and  mellow  as  his  own  vintages,  honoring 
all  women  with  old  time  chivalry,  and  with  an  Arab's  idea  of 
the  virtue  of  hospitality.  Mrs.  Charlton,  in  the  place  of 
Honor,  is  paying  unconscious  compliments  to  the  skill  of  his 
€hefy  and  for  the  moment  both  eyes  and  attention  are  com- 
pletely absorbed.  Opposite  sits  Eleanor,  whom  Dora  re- 
gards with  considerable  curiosity.  She  is  paler  than  usual, 
she  eats  little,  a  more  than  ordinary  troubled  expression 
saddens  the  gentle  eyes.  By  Dora's  side  is  Captain  Ffrench, 
and  while  he  lends  a  careless  ear  to  her  gay  sallies,  she  sees 
with  inward  rage,  that  his  eyes  wander  perpetually  to  Elea- 
nor. He,  too,  observes  the  cloud,  but  it  never  occurs  to  him 
to  connect  it  with  the  letter  of  a  few  hours  before.  It  is  her 
nagging  old  mother,  he  thinks,  who  is  fretting  the  poor  girl 
to  death.  He  is  character  reader  enough  to  guess  pretty 
clearly  what  sort  of  a  Tartar  Mrs.  Charlton  can  be,  when  she 
likes.  A  great  compassion  fills  him.  In  the  love  of  some 
men,  the  element  of  pity  is  an  absolute  essential ;  the  instinct 
of  protection  must  be  the  kindler  of  the  flame.  Richard 
Ffrench  is  one  of  these.  His  passion  is  not  very  profound, 
j,>erhaps,  as  yet,  but  if  Eleanor  Charlton  were  the  most  design- 
ing of  coquettes,  she  could  not  advance  her  interests  half  so 
purely  ic  any  other  way.  As  he  sits  here  he  would  like  to 
comt.  between  her  and  all  life's  troubles  and  toils,  to  shieH 
her  fronr.  M^ork,  and  sorrow,  and  nagging,  forevermore.  And 
Dora's  bright  blue  eyes  read  his  face,  and  his  thoughts,  as  ne 
sits  beside  her,  like  a  printed  page.  Inieed,  less  sharp  orb? 
might,  for  the  print  is  ^  ery  large. 

"  Stupid  idiot !  "  she  thinks,  *'  these  big  fellows,  all  brawn 
ard  muscle,  are  sure  to  be  besotted  about  pensive,  die-away 
4amsels,  and  their  lackadaisical  airs.     As  if  any  one  cov^d 


60 


tS  THE  COOL  Of  THE  EVESINQ. 


not  lee  it  was  all  put  on  with  her  dinner  dress.  She  haf 
studied  him  well  enough,  it  seems,  to  know  that  tl^e  secret 
sorrow  sort  of  thing  is  safe  to  go  down." 

Dessert  is  over,  the  ladies  rise  and  go.  There  is  British 
blood  in  the  Charlton  veins,  and  Mr.  Charlton  likes  and 
honors  the  ancient  custom  of  lingering  over  the  walnuts  and 
the  wine,  after  his  womankind  depart  To-aay  he  has  f 
word  or  two  besides  for  his  step-son's  private  ear. 

**  Well,  Dick,"  he  says,  "  and  how  do  you  like  tnem  ?  " 

He  pushes  the  claret  towards  the  younger  man,  who  is  ab 
itemious  by  instinct,  and  prefers,  even  after  dinner,  a  cleat 
head  to  a  muddled  one.  Captain  Ffrench,  peeiing  a  peach, 
lifts  his  straight  eyebrows. 

"  That  goes  without  saying,  does  it  not  ?  A  man  can  have 
but  one  opinion  concerning  three  charming  girls." 

"  Let  us  count  out  the  dowager  and  the  young  one,"  sayi 
Mr.  Charlton,  good  humorediy.  '*  That  little  Lightwood  if 
pretty  as  a  rosebud." 

"Prettier,  I  think,"  says  Captain  Dick. 

*'  But  Miss  Charlton — ah  !  there  is  dignity,  and  beautj 
and  grace  combined,  if  you  like." 

Richard  Ffrench  laughs  lazily. 

"  The  precise  remark  Mr.  Vincent  Crummies  made  whe& 
he  first  saw  Mrs.  Vincent  Crummies  standing  on  her  head. 
I  wonder  who  she  takes  it  after  ? — Miss  Charlton,  I  mean, 
—not  Mrs.  Vincent  Crummies.  Her  father  must  have  been 
rather  a  fine  fellow^  I  should  judge.  A  man  may  be  a  good 
fellow  in  the  main,  and  yet  write  himself  down  an  ass  matri* 
monially." 

Mr.  Charlton  chuckles. 

**  Hard  on  the  dowager,  DlcR.  Well  1  a  great  deal  of  bei 
would  be  wearing,  I  dare  sa^y.  B  it  you  must  allow  she  is  i 
remarkably  well-preserved  woman  for  her  years." 

'*Both  pickled  and  preserved,  I  should  say,  sir.  Yo« 
have  no  immediate  intendon  then,  I   conclude,  from  voiu 


Oi  THE  COCL  OF  THE  EVEHIHG. 


Ml-' 


diipusionate  way  c    speaking,  of  in^'cting  apLn  me  a  ttcf^ 
mother?" 

"Key  I" 

"  Because  I  think  her  ideas  run  a  little  in  that  groore. 
Charlton  is  a  fine  place,  and  you  are  an  uncommonly  fine* 
looking  elderly  gentleman,  governor." 

This  is  carrying  the  war  into  Africa  with  a  vengeance.  Hai 
Dick  foreseen  and  forestalled  his  communication  ?  For  a 
moment  he  is  nonplussed — then  he  laughs. 

"  Rubbish,  Dick  1  Nothing  so  absurd  could  ever  enter 
any  head  but  one  addled  over  *  OUendorfs  Spanish.'  But, 
speaking  of  matrimony — what  do  you  suppose  I  have  brought 
those  girls  down  here  frr  ?  " 

"It  is  plain  to  the  dullest  intelligence.  To  select,  at 
your  leisure,  a  mistress  for  Charlton,  and  a " 

*'  Wife  for  you.     Exactly,  Dick.     Now  which  shall  it  be  ?  " 

"  My  dear  governor  I " 

"  Which  ?  Eleanor  you  have  known  a  week — knew  long 
ago,  in  fact.  And  Dora  you  have  seen  enough  of  to  ascer 
tain '♦ 

"  That  she  is  an  extremely  charming  girl,  with  whom  I  in- 
tend to  have  nothing  to  do  1  Let  me  offer  you  this  dish  ol 
apricots,  sir ;  they  are  nearly  perfect." 

"  Then  it  is  to  be  Miss  Charlton  ?  My  dear  boy  j  it  is 
precisely  what  I  would  have  wished.  She  is  all  any  man 
could  desire — well-bred,  well-looking,  gentle,  good,  and  the 
best  of  Charlton  blood.  Dick,  you  are  a  trump  !  Let  me 
congratulate  you." 

He  stretches  his  hand  across  the  table.  His  step-son 
places  his  in  it,  but  under  amused  protest. 

"My  dear  governor  I  really  this  is  very  ^mb^trassing. 
What  have  I  said  to  commit  myself  to  this  serious  extent  ? 
I  have  a  sort  of  married  man  feeling  already,  and  upon  my 
life  I  don't  wish  to  Things  can't  rush  on  in  *t)is  summarf 
way-  -you  mustn't,  you  know." 


62 


IN  TitE  COOL  OF  THE  EVENIHO. 


ill 


'*  Dick,  listen  to  me — seriojsly,  I  beg.    The  one  deiire  jl 

my  life  is  to  see  you  settled." 

"  Then  your  desire  is  gratified,  sir.  Nothing  could  6e 
more  flatly  settled  than  I  feel  at  this  moment." 

**  To  see  you  settled,"  goes  on  Mr.  Charhon,  with  some 
emotion,  '^  with  an  estimable  wife.  Nothing  else  will  do  it, 
Dick." 

"Are  you  sure  that  will,  governor?"  GoubtfuUy.  "01 
nuptial  Hiss  I  know  nothing,  but  I  have  known  married 
men,  and — well,  to  escape  too  much  conjugal  felicity,  I  have 
known  them  to  rush  *  anywhere,  anywhere,  out  of  the  world.* 
My  friend  Englehart  has  a  wife — I  say  no  more." 

"  Your  friend  Englehart  has  a  pernicious  influence,"  ex- 
claims Mr.  Charlton,  hotly  ;  "  but  for  him  you  would  nevei 
have  thought  of  this  wild-goose  chase  to  Central  America. 
It  was  he  that  induced  you  to  go  with  the  /Vrctic  Exploration 
party.  Is  the  recollection  of  blubber  and  seal  oil  so  sayory 
that  you  long  to  be  at  it  again  ?  " 

"  Nc  "  Dick  answers,  *-  as  a  steady  diet,  I  don't  pine  for 
blubber  or  seal  oil ;  but  in  the  Honduras  affair ^" 

"  Which  you  will  never  join,  with  my  consent  I "  cries  Mr. 
Charlton,  growing  red. 

"  Now,  my  dear  sir,"  expostulates  Dick,  "  consider.  I 
stand  pledged  to  Dr.  Englehart  and  the  rest  of  the  Scientific 
Corps.  It  is  true  they  might  replace  me,  but  I  know  they 
would  rather  I  went ;  and  even  if  I  could  bear  to  disappoint 
then,  like  Tony  Lumpkin,  I  could  not  bear  to  disappoint 
mysel*.  It  is  uncommonly  kind  of  you,  I  know*  I  appre- 
ciate fully  the  affection  that  makes  you  desire  to  retain  me  , 
but  you  see,  governor,  I  am  an  adventurer,  a  rolling  stone,  of 
C'^ thing  If  I  stajed  here  I  would  turn  into  a  ver  table  molly- 
coJiIlej  I  would  spoil  in  too  much  sunshine  and  sweetness.  I 
g.ni  a  restless  animal  by  nature.  I  must  have  a  safety-valv€ 
cf  sonie  kind,  and  what  could  be  safer  than  Honduras  jnd 
Ci,<i -mining?     Vvhen  1  withed  to  'oin  the  Cirlists ' 


W 


\  \ 


IN  THb  COOL  OF  THE  RVaNJSG, 


6| 


Ij 


**  You  gave  up  that  mad  idea  to  please  me.  Give  up  thia 
other,  my  boy,  marry  Nelly,  and  stay  at  home." 

'*  Isn't  that  taking  a  great  deal  for  granted,  sir  ?  It  it  one 
tiling  for  Miss  Charlton  to  accept  your  invitation  and  spend 
a  few  weeks  here,  quite  another  for  her  to  accept  mt^* 

Mr.  Charlton  smiles  significantly. 

'<  Is  that  all  ?  Try  and  see.  You  are  a  tall  and  pioper 
fellow,  Dick,  an  eligible  partis  as  the  ladies  put  it ;  I  wouldn't 
be  too  modest,  if  I  were  you.  Come  I  I'm  fond  of  you,  my 
lad,  you  know  that ;  to  keep  you  with  me  is  the  one  desire 
of  my  life.  You  are  my  heir — all  I  have  is  yours ;  make  th« 
old  man  happy,  and  remain  with  him.  When  I  fell  into  this 
property,  it  was  not  for  my  own  sake,  my  dear  boy,  I  rejoiced, 
but  for  yours.  Of  course,  in  my  will,  I  shall  not  foi^et  these 
good  little  girls,  who  have  come  here  at  my  bidding — lome 
of  my  blood  is  in  their  veins ;  but  you  are  the  heir,  jroti 
are  my  son.  You  pj-e  listening,  Dick  ?  And  great  wealtk 
brings  great  responsibilities.  I  am  growing  too  old  for  re* 
sponsibility — stay  and  lift  the  load  from  my  shoulders. 
Write  to  this  fellow  Englehart,  curb  your  roving  gropen* 
iities,  cease  to  be  a  rolling  stone,  marry  Miss  Charlton,  oi 
whomever  you  please — only  stay  with  your  old  father, 
Dick." 

**  My  dear  sir,"  Dick  says,  and  can  say  no  more.  He  ii 
more  moved  than  he  cares  to  show,  but  touched  as  he  is,  the 
thought  of  giving  up  the  Central  America  project  gives  him 
a  keen  pang.  He  rises  and  goes  over  to  the  window,  impa- 
tient  with  himself.  '*  I  must  be  an  unfeeling  dog,"  he  thinks. 
*'  Any  one  else  would  yield  at  half  this  pleading.  And  yet 
what  an  utterly  good-for-nothing  life  I  shall  lead  here." 

**  WeH,  Dick  ! "  Mr.  Charlton  says,  following  him  with  an 
anxious  countenance. 

**  I'll  try,  sir,"  Dick  Fficnch  says,  turning  round ;  "  don't 
press  me  too  hard.  I'll  do  what  I  can.  Nature  ha?  made 
me  a  vagabond,  and  you  can't  transnml?  one  of  that  (latev 


?    ! 


•ki' 


^, 


(4 


/V  rjf£  COOL  OF  THE  EVENING. 


nitjr  into  a  respectable  fatuily  man  at  once.  Bat  for  fOH 
•akc " 

Mr.  Charlton  grasps  his  hand,  tears  in  his  old  eyes. 

"  God  bless  you,  Dick — God  bless  you.  I  knew  yo« 
would,  you  have  too  much  of  your  mother  in  you  to  grieve 
wilfully  any  c  le  who  loves  you.     And  Eleanor ^" 

"  Ah  1  never  mind  that,  governor.  One  thing  at  a  time. 
And  now  1  will  leave  you  to  join  the  ladies  alone — I  want  a 
smoke  and  half  an  hour  to  think  all  this  revolution  over." 

He  opens  the  window,  and  steps  out.  The  lovely  sum- 
mer gloaming  yet  lingers,  although  the  moon  is  rising.  Sweet 
scents  greet  him,  utter  stillness  is  around  him.  He  tumi 
into  the  entrance  avenue,  dark  already  under  its  arching 
trees,  with  a  sense  of  loss  and  depression  upon  him,  keen 
and  strong.  To  give  up  a  life  of  brigiit  adventure,  of  cease^ 
less  change,  of  scientific  research,  the  society  of  men  bril- 
liant of  intellect,  good  comrades,  and  indefatigable  explor- 
ers, for  an  existence  humdrum  and  monotonous  to  a  degree, 
without  excitement  or  object  from  year's  end  to  year's  end 
— it  is  no  light  thing  Mr.  Charlton  has  demanded  of  Richard 
Ffrench.  As  to  Miss  Charlton — but  he  is  out  on  the  high 
road  now,  and  gives  up  the  conundinm  for  the  present 

**  It  is  Kismet,  I  suppose,"  he  thinks,  gloomily,  '<  and 
nothing  remains  but  to  cover  my  face,  and  die  with  dignity. 
1  shall  be  a  round  peg  in  a  square  hole,  all  the  rest  of  my 
life.  Well,  I  will  have  the  majority  for  company  at  least— 
I  wonder  if  that  is  the  man  who  called  upon  me  the  other 
day  at  SL&ddeck  Light  ?  I  ought  to  know  that  negligently 
gracefal  walk." 

The  man  disappears  as  he  looks,  and  Captain  Ffrench 
saunters  on.  It  is  past  eight ;  in  the  warm  stillness  of  the 
summer  evening,  the  ripple  of  the  sea  on  the  shore  a  quartet 
'rf'  a  mile  off,  can  be  heard.  Under  the  peach-trees  by  the 
southern  wall  the  man  takes  his  stand,  and  Icdu  at  hit 
watch. 


m  THE  COOL  or  THE  BVBirilfO. 


6J 


•*A  quarter  after  eight,  by  Jove!"  he  sayi,  "but  it  it 
Uie  deuce  and  all  of  a  walk  1  If  any  one  had  told  noe  a  year 
ago  that  I  would  walk  three  miles  on  a  hot  July  evening  to 
•ee  any  young  woman  in  the  universe,  and  that  yoang 
woman  objecting  in  the  strongest  way — ah  1  well/'  with  a 
sigh,  '*  Call  no  man  wise  until  he  is  dead." 

In  the  drawing-room  the  gas  is  lit,  and  Vera  at  the  pUoo 
\k  singing.  At  a  table  near  sits  Mrs.  Charlton  and  her  hott, 
absorbed  in  chess. 

Eleanor,  near  an  open  window,  holds  a  book,  but  does 
not  read.  She  is  restless  and  nervous,  starting  at  every 
sound,  preoccupied  and  distrait.  Dora  sees  it  all.  Dora, 
half  buried  in  a  big  chair,  with  a  strip  of  embroidery  in  hei 
hand. 

A  clock  strikes  eight.  Miss  Charlton  rises,  lays  aside  her 
book,  and  passes  through  the  open  window.  No  one  notices 
except  Dora,  and  Dora  glides  to  the  window  and  watchet 
her  out  of  sight.  Where  is  she  going  ?  Was  the  letter  an 
assignation  ?  Miss  Lightwood  feels  she  must  know  or  per- 
ish. She  follows  Miss  Charlton  deliberately,  unseen,  un- 
heard, and  presently  espies  her  at  the  other  end  of  the 
grounds,  where  the  ornamental  garden  ends  and  the  orchard 
begins.  A  low  stone  wall  and  high  hedge  separate  the  Charl- 
ton grounds  from  the  common  land,  and  on  the  other  side 
of  the  wall,  leaning  lightly  upon  it,  Dora  sees  what  ihc 
knows  she  will  see,  what  she  hopes  she  will  see — a  man. 

**  Aha  1 "  cries  Miss  Lightwood,  in  triumph,  "  the  pale,  the 
pens've,  the  perfect  Eleanor,  nr^akes  and  keeps  assignations. 
The  great  Dick  may  be  stupid  and  pig-headed,  but  I  wonda 
what  he  will  sa^  to  thii?" 


MT  TMM  EJ^OT  or  TMM  MOQM. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


■T  THS   UOHT  or  THB  IIOOW. 


=1 


|HE  moon  of  the  lummer  night  hai  riien  r«d  Mi4 
round,  while  yet  in  the  weit  the  opal  brilliance  c/ 
closing  day  lingers.  But  even  with  this  warn 
After-glow  on  her  face,  Dora  sees  that  Eleanor  is  fixedly  pale 
M  she  goes  to  the  place  of  tryst.  The  roan's  face  she  cannot 
see — a  broad  straw  hat  shades  it,  and  he  stands  well  within 
the  shadow  of  the  trees.  She  herself  is  hidden  among  some 
clustering  evergreens — for  fruit  trees  and  forest  trees  seem 
to  grow  indiscriminately  in  the  Charlton  orchard.  She 
stands  here  a  moment  irresolute — curiosity  and  malice  comi 
bined,  are  tempting  her  terribly.  Honorable  in  any  way, 
Dora  is  not ;  unprincipled  in  all  small  matters,  she  is,  to 
an  extraordinary  degree.  As  a  general  thing,  eavesdropping 
is  not  worth  the  trouble — to-night  it  is.  If  Eleanor  really 
has  a  lover,  and  is  out  of  the  race,  what  remains  for  her  but  a 
quiet  **  walk  over."  Still  this  may  be  some  near  and  obnox- 
ious relative;  she  has  read  of  such  things,  and  somehow 
Eleanor  Charlton  does  not  seem  the  sort  of  girl  to  have 
clandestine  lovers.  In  Dora's  eyes  she  is  at  once  an  artful 
coquette,  and  a  prude  of  the  first  order.  If  she  could  but 
hear  1  how  earnestly  they  seem  to  converse-^it  is  too  pro- 
voking to  stand  here  and  lose  all  that.  She  ¥fiU  run  the 
risk — her  dress  is  dark,  and  soundless — she  must  hear. 

And  now  you  know  what  manner  of  woman  Theodora 
Lightwood  is.  She  tiptoes  close,  her  heart  beating  with  ex- 
pectation, draws  her  drapery  closely  about  her,  lean?  hei 
head  well  forward,  and  deliberately  listens. 

For  a  moment  rhe  can  hear  nothing  but  a  low  murmur-* 
it  is  Eleanor  who  is  speaking,  and  at  all  times  Miss  Char'toi 


n 


Mr  TMM  Atrnmr  ot  tmb  moom. 


Bit  A  low  Toico.  It  it  even  more  subdued  than  neoAl  Mxm^ 
bet  in  its  acceui*  Dora  knoirs  there  is  distress. 

^'Tlut  is  all  quit«  true,"  the  man  says  coolly  ;  **  what  H 
the  use  of  reminding  me  of  it  ?  You  may  be  a  frost-maiden, 
Nelly,  a  marble  Diana,  with  erery  wajrward  impulse  well  in 
hand,  but  you  see  I  am  only  mortal — very  mortal,  my  dear, 
and  I  could  not  keep  away.  Come,  forgive  mo.  If  I 
loved  you  less  I  might  find  obedience  more  easy." 

Eleanor  speaks,  and  again  Dora,  straininq;  every  nerve^ 
loses  her  reply.     But  the  man  breaks  in  impatiently. 

**  Dishonorable  1  clandestine  1  as  if  I  came  sneaking  here 
from  choice — as  if  I  would  not  go  up  to  the  front  door,  and 
ring  the  bell,  and  demand  to  see  my  betrothed  \^fe,  befort 
the  whole  Charlton  conclave,  if  you  would  but  let  me.  But 
there  is  your  mother,  and  I  am  detrimental,  and  Ffrench 
is  the  heir,  and  son  of  the  house.  You  might  as  well  yield 
first  as  last,  Nelly,  my  dear.  I  am  a  poor  devil,  good  for 
nothing,  with  no  prospects  for  years  to  come,  and  this  fellow, 
Ffrench,  is  heir,  they  say,  to  two  or  three  millions.  It  ii 
only  a  question  of  time ;  you  cannot  hold  out.  We  both 
know  perfectly  well  why  your  mother  has  brought  you  here. 
It  would  be  madness  not  to  take  the  goods  the  gods  providsi 
and Wnere  are  you  going  ?  '* 

*'Back  to  the  house,"  Eleanor  answers,  indignantly.  **I 
should  never  have  come.  Every  word  >ou  utter  is  an  in- 
sult. If  you  can  thmk  this  of  me,  it  is  indeed  time  we  should 
part." 

**  Oh  t  forgive  me,"  he  cries  out,  a  real  passion  in  hit 
tone,  "  I  am  a  brute.  No,  I  do  not  doubt  you  ;  you  arc 
true  as  steel,  true  as  truth     but  when  I  think  of  the  differ< 

ence Nelly,  you  must  Jespise  me — how  can  you  help  it; 

such  a  useless  drone  as  I  am,  lounging  through  life  without 
aim,  or  energy,  or  ambition  ?  I  despise  myself  when  I  wake 
up  enough  to  feel  at  all.  If  I  had  a  spark  of  g'^nerositv,  I 
would  force  you  to  accept  your  free  loni — and  ♦^bb  Ffrench 


t'l  i    i' 


r'  ■  ■ 


W' '  ' 


i    1 


m  Bl    THE  UGHT  OF  VMM  M0019, 

ii  a  fine  fellow  too — but  I  am  not  ;enerout ;  I  love  you  u 
itrongl;  as  a  stronger  man  might  do,  and  I  cannot.  But  1 
vill  give  up  this  idle  life,  I  swear  it,  Nelly.  I  will  try  and 
jnake  myself  worthy  of  you.  Only  g;  /e  me  time,  ucar,  try 
and  trust  me,  and — and  don't  li?ten  to  Richard  Ffrench.  II« 
will  ask  you  to  marry  him — how  can  he  help  it  ?  Ke  if 
fond  of  you  already ;  he  has  your  picture  over  there  :n  thfe« 
hut  among  the  rocks  Keep  him  off,  Nelly,  don't  let  youi 
mother  infliisnce  you,  don't  marry  him  for  his  mon<?y.  Wait, 
wait,  wait,  and  the  day  will  come " 

A  branch  on  which  Dora  breathlessly  leans,  breaks.  At 
the  sharp  crath  Eleanor  starts  up  hastily,  and  the  culpriti 
ttilling  her  very  heart-beats,  crouches  low.  The  darkneM 
pf  the  evergreens  protects  her,  the  moonlight  flooding  the 
open  with  pale  glory,  does  not  pierce  here.  But  she  losoc 
what  follows.  When  she  is  sufficiently  reassured  to  listen, 
it  is  Eleanor  who  is  speaking. 

"  No,"  she  says,  resolutely,  "  no,  again  and  again.  You 
must  not  write,  you  must  not  call,  you  must  not  come  here 
You  must  leave  St.  Ann's  to-morrow.  Oh  !  if  you  cared  for 
me  would  you  compromise  me  in  this  way  ?  If  you  knew 
the  shock,  the  pain,  your  letter  gave  me,  the  shame  I  feel 
at  meeting  you  like  this.  But  it  must  not  be,  it  never  shall 
be  again.  You  will  go  and  we  will  wait.  You  ask  me 
to  trust  you ;  I  have — I  do — I  always  will.  If  you  failed 
me,  Ernest,  how  could  I  live  ?  You  know  what  my  life  is, 
dreary  enough.  Heaven  knows,  but  I  think  of  you  and  the 
years  to  come,  and  I  wait  and  hope.  But  I  will  meet  you 
no  more,  and  you  must  go.  You  need  fear  no  rival  in  Cap- 
tain Ffrench  ;  if  he  cared  for  me  I  should  know  it.  If  if 
heart  is  in  his  profession,  his  exploring  mania  is  the  grand 
passion  of  his  life.  I  like  him — he  is  a  brave  and  gallant 
gentleman,  but  I  belong  to  you  I  can  never  belong  to  an^ 
one  else." 

**  My  brave,  loyal  NeUy 


ii 


I 


mm 


iir»r  ill 


»r  TMM  U€MT  OF  TMM  MOOIf, 


:  me 

iled 

:  i», 

the 


Dorm,  peeping  through  her  leafy  screen,  lees  him  take  both 

Her  hands.  They  are  evidently  about  to  part,  an  J  she  hat 
not  seen  him  once.  The  thick  drooping  boughs  that  screen 
her  do  the  same  good  office  for  him.  Anotner  motnent  and 
they  have  parted.  Eleanor  moves  quickly  towards  the 
bouse,  Dora  shrinks  noiselessly  b*ck  in  her  green  coveit 
The  man  lingers  until  she  is  out  of  sight,  then  turns  and 
walks  slowly  away. 

For  a  few  minutes  Miss  Lightwood  remains  in  her  retreati 
triumph  swelling  her  heart.  She  has  no  rival  to  fear  then-— 
she  has  only  to  play  her  cards  cleverly,  and  the  game  is  her 
own.  How  fair  Charlton  looks  by  moonlight,  the  tall  urns 
gleaming  like  silver,  the  high  black  trees  looking  a  primeval 
forest  in  the  uncertain  light.  Such  a  lovely  home  for  her 
and  Vera,  such  freedom  from  toil,  such  exemption  from  care, 
such  a  luxurious  life.  I  think  if  Dora  could  have  prayed, 
she  would  have  knelt  down  there,  and  prayed  for  success. 
But  prayer  is  not  much  in  her  way — of  the  earth,  earthy  she 
is  to  the  core.  Eat.  drink,  and  be  merry,  for  to-morrow  yoi 
die,  and  death  is  at  the  end  of  all  things,  in  Dora's  creed. 
Marry  rich,  and  spend  his  money — these  are  the  two  great 
duties  of  every  woman's  life. 

Captain  Ffrench  has  not  returned  when  Miss  Charlton  re- 
enters the  drawing  room.  Vera  is  still  amusing  herself  at 
the  piano — she  has  a  sweet  voice,  and  plays  cleverly.  The 
chess-players  are  engrossed  with  queens  and  castles.  Dcfft'i 
absence  she  does  not  notice. 


<«  < 


I  don't  pretend  to  tencb  hm 


>  M 


gtegl  Yen  b  a  spirited  voice 


*'  *  It**  mission,  or  its  follj, 
A  task  like  that  reqaires  t 
Jfy  disposition's  jolly.'  " 


ll  i 


It 

1 1'  I 


fO  MY  TMM  U0Wr  OF  Tin  MOOM, 

''Oh,  Nelly  1"  the  crici,  turniBg  round,  *<Ii  iMU  fOBV 
Have  you  seen  Dot?  I  thought  joa  had  both  gme  oat  to 
be  sentimental  together  in  the  moonlight.'* 

"Is  Dot  n3t  here?"  Eleanor  asks.  <*Na^  I  kaT«  BOl 
Men  her — ^we  havt  not  been  together." 

*^  Then  perhaps  she  is  with  Captain  Dick ;  Iva  has  disap- 
peared as  well  It  ii/  a  heavenly  night,  and  I  would  have 
gon:  out  too,  but  I  didn't  want  to  play  gooseberry.  Are  you 
going  again  ?  " 

"  I  am  going  upstairs.     Good-night,  dear.'* 

"Good-night,  Nelly,"  the  gi'"!  responds. 

While  Eleanor  goes  up  the  broad  carpettd  stairway,  ilil 
can  hear  the  fresh  happy  young  voice  : 

*' '  And  what  i«,  after  all,  sucocas  F 
My  life  is  fair  and  sunny. 
Let  other*s  coTet  Fame's  carets ; 
Pm  satisfied  with  money.' " 

The  old  story,  Eleanor  thinks,  even  from  this  little  girl's 
innocent  lips.  Is  wealth,  then,  life's  highest  aim  ?  At  all 
events,  the  lack  of  it  mars  many  a  life.  She  goes  to  her 
room,  but  she  does  not  light  the  lamp,  or  go  to  bed.  It  is 
only  ten,  as  she  can  see  by  her  poor  little  silver  watch,  and 
her  recent  interview  has  banished  all  desire  for  sleep.  She 
Irishes  shr  had  never  come  here,  but  her  mother  so  insisted 
>->it  looks  so  horribly  like  a  deliberate  attempt  to  ensnare 
Richard  Ffrench.  Does  he  think  she  has  come  for  that? 
Her  cheeks  burn  at  the  thought.  Were  it  not  for  this  draw- 
back, a  few  weeks  in  this  pleasant  country  house,  with  its 
giacious  host,  its  rest  from  the  weary  tread-mill  of  hei 
teacher's  life,  would  be  unspeakably  invigorating.  But  if 
Captain  Ffrench  thinks  that 

Her  door  opens,  her  mother  enters, 

"  In  the  dark,  Eleanor  ?  "     Even  in  her  blandest  moment!; 
Mrs.  Charlton's  voice  has  a  rasping  quality.     "  What  a  loT«lf 


BY  THE  LIG^T  OF  TME  UOOM, 


ft 


It.  Where  were  yoa  and  Capuin  Ffrench  wandering  al^ 
evening?'* 

**  I  was  not  with  Captain  Ffrench/'  Eleanor  answers,  hei 
heait  fluttering  guiltily.     **  I  have  not  seen  him  since  dinner/ 

"  No  ?  "  sharply,  **  where  then  did  you  go — alone  ?  " 

"It  is  such  a  lovely  night,  mother.  Will  yon  not  §tL 
down  ?  " 

•*  Was  Dora  Lightwood  with  you  ?  " 

"No." 

"  Nof  with  you.     Was  she  with  Richard  Ffrench  ?  *' 

"  I  do  not  know.     Very  probably." 

There  is  silence — uncomfortable,  ominous  silence.  £lea- 
cor  feels  through  every  tingling  nerve,  that  a  storm  is  brew- 
irg,  and  braces  herself  to  meet  it 

"  Eleanor,"  her  mother  begins,  in  a  deep,  repressed  voice, 
"  what  does  this  mean  ?  Are  you  deliberately  resolved  to 
thwart  me  ?  Are  you  mad  enough  to  fling  away  the  one 
great  chance  of  your  life  ?  Are  you  going  to  give  Richard 
Ffrench  to  Dora  Lightwood  ?  Wait !  "  as  Eleanor  is  about 
to  ^eak,  "  I  do  not  want  any  evasions,  any  shuffling,  any 
beating  about  the  bush.  It  is  in  your  power  before  you  quit 
Charlton,  to  quit  as  the  afllianced  wife  of  its  heir,  if  you  will. 
From  Mr.  Charlton's  own  lips,  to-night,  have  I  learned 
this." 

Her  daughter  .  oks  at  her.  The  issue  has  come,  the 
truth  must  be  told.  Mrs.  Charlton  has  a  fine  furious  temper, 
a  bitter  bad  tongue  ;  who  should  know  that  better  than  her 
luckless  daughter  ?  And  Eleanor  shrinks  quivering  from  the 
ordeal,  but  she  never  falters  in  her  resolve. 

"  From  Mr.  Charlton's  own  lips,"  repeats  Mn,  Charlton, 
emphatically.  "  It  seems  he  spoke  to  Dick  at  dinner,  and 
Dick  gave  him  to  understand  that-  -that  *  Barkis  was  will- 
in',  '  "  with  a  grim  attempt  at  facetiousness.  "  He  admires 
you,  it  seems,  more  than  he  ever  admired  any  one  before ; 
•t  the  slightest  encouragement  he  it  ready  ^o  speak.     H^ 


I' 


i\ 


\  'I 


72 


BY  THE  UGHT  OF  THE  MOOH. 


it  an  excellent  young  man,  a  little  wild,  as  I  said.  alMmt  • 
roving  life,  but  without  a  single  vice.  He  has  good  manner^ 
good  looks,  a  fine  education,  and  acknowledged  talentii 
Now  what  can  you — what  can  any  one  want  more  ?  * 

Silence. 

*'  You  will  be  one  of  the  richest  women  going ;  all  your 
diudgery  will  be  at  an  end.  You  will  have  a  home  where  I 
can  close  my  days  in  the  peace  and  comfort  I  always  was 
used  to  in  other  times.  Alfred  can  go  to  Germany  to  study 
music  "  (Alfred  is  a  juvenile  son  and  brother,  down  in  New 
Orleans),  "  and  Mr.  Chariton  says  you  will  make  tl\e  happi- 
ness of  his  life.  Nothing  could  be  more  affectionate  than  his 
manner  of  speaking  of  you.  My  dear,  it  was  a  red-letter  day 
in  your  life,  in  all  our  lives,  the  day  we  came  here.'"* 

Silence. 

''Eleanor,"  the  rasping  'cice  takes  a  rising  inflection, 
•*do  you  hear?" 

"Yes,  mother,  I  hear." 

''And  have  you  nothing  to  say?  In  my  youth  girli  An- 
swered their  mothers." 

"What  do  you  wish  me  to  say  ?  " 

Mrs.  Charlton  is  growing  exasperated — always  an  easy 
thing  for  Mrs.  Charlton.  Eleanor's  voice  is  full  of  repressed 
feeling;  but  it  sounds  cold  in  her  mother's  ears,  her  hands  are 
tightly  locked  in  her  lap,  but  her  mother  does  not  see.  Sht 
fixes  her  hard  stare  on  Eleanor's  shrinking  face. 

**Will  you— or  will  you  not,"  she  slowly  says,  "many 
Richard  Ffrench  ?  ^' 

"I  will  not!" 

"  You  will  not  ?  " 

"  I  will  not.  Mother,  I  cannot.  Do  not  be  angry,  do 
not  scold — oh  1  do  not  1     It  is  impossible." 

«  Why— if  I  may  ask  ?  " 

The  storm  is  very  near,  dibi.ant  thunder  ii  in  every  tona^ 
sheet  lightning  in  every  glance. 


MY  TME  LIGHT  CF  THh  UOOM, 


71 


omt  • 

ilentii 


i  your 
lere  I 
rs  waa 
study 
New 
liappi- 
anhii 
ercby 


ctioa, 


i  AH- 


ea>y 

sssed 

are 

She 

larry 


I 


.  do 


"  I  do  not  care  for  him.  I  never  can  care  for  him,  and  I 
«ia8t  lore  the  man  I  marry." 

Mri.  Charlton  laughs — a  horrid,  rasping,  little  2augh,  fiill 
of  rage. 

**  Love  1  Caie  for  him  1  Oh  I  you  fool  I  To  think  that 
any  girl  of  three-and-twenty,  obliged  to  work  like  a  galley- 
slave,  $!hould  talk  such  rot  You  mean  then  to  tell  me, 
deliberately  and  in  cold  blood  to  tell  me,  that  when  this 
young  man  asks  you,  you  will  say  no  ?  " 

"  I  will  say  no." 

She  is  trembling  from  head  to  foot  with  repressed  excite 
ment,  but  she  will  not  flinch.  There  is  blank  silence  for  a 
moment — then  the  storm  bursts.  And  such  a  storm  I  Mrs. 
Charlton  is  a  virago,  a  vulgar  virago ;  she  has  never  curbed 
anger  or  rage  in  her  life ;  she  has  a  tongue  like  a  two-edged 
sword.  Eleanor  has  seen  her  in  her  rages  often,  but  nevei 
quite  at  white  heat  until  to-night.  She  bows  before  the 
tempest,  she  quails,  she  hides  her  face  in  her  hands,  fear, 
shame,  disgust,  shaking  her  as  a  reed. 

**Ohl  mother!  mother  I"  she  gasps  once,  "for  the  love 
of  Heaven  I "  but  her  mother  pays  no  heed.  The  tornado 
must  spend  itself,  and  does. 

As  eleven  strikes,  she  strides  out  of  the  room,  banging  the 
door  witS  a  last  wooden  *'  damn,"  and  the  contest  is  ended 
/or  to-night.  For  to-night.  Alas  I  Eleanor  knows  too  well, 
that  to-morrow,  and  all  the  to-morrows,  and  until  the  end  of 
her  life,  slie  will  never  hear  the  lut  of  this.  She  lays  her 
folded  arms  on  the  window,  and  her  head  upon  tkem,  as 
though  she  never  cared  to  lift  it  again.  As  she  lies,  white 
and  spent,  she  hears  Vera  singing,  going  along  the  passage 
tmtude: 

'*  *  Alas  I  how  easily  things  go  wrong ) 
A  sigh  too  mnch,  or  a  kiss  too  Imig.* 


'•I  wonder  if  Nelly  is  asleep- 
4 


the  voice  breaki  off  la 


if 


I 


74 


Sr  TBE  LIGHT  OF  THE  MOONi 


folr^oqaj.     "  Ilerf  is  a  kiss  through  the  keyhole,  m leep  m 

awake. 

**  *  hxA  tliere  follows  a  miit  and  a  iweepiag  raia, 
And  life  is  never  the  same  again.' " 

The  voice,  fresh  and  clear  as  a  skylark's,  ceases,  a  dod 
shuts.  Vera  is  in  her  room.  Then  stillness.  Then  down  os 
the  lawn  below,  voices — the  shrill  treble  of  Dora,  and  the 
deeper  tones  of  Captain  Ffrench. 

Coming  home  at  his  leisure,  a  little  after  eleven,  Captain 
Ffrench  finds  Miss  Lightwood  li  igering  out  of  doors,  enjoy- 
ing the  midnight  moonlight  and  coolness.  A  shadow  still 
rests  on  the  captain's  brow ;  he  has  accepted  his  fate — none 
the  less  he  finds  it  hard. 

"  What  I "  Dora  cries,  lifting  her  pale  eyebrows,  "  alone  I 
Where  is  Nelly?" 

"  Miss  Charlton  ?     I  have  not  seen  her." 

**  Not  seen  her  ?  "  Dora  knits  her  brows.  "  Oh  1  but  that 
is  nonsense,  Captain  Ffrench.  I  saw  her  with  you  not  an 
hour  ago." 

**  I  assure  you,  no.  I  have  not  seen  Miss  Charlton  since 
dinner." 

'<No?"  Dora  repeats,  and  now  the  blue  artless  eyei 
open  wide.  "  Who  then  could  it  have  been  ?  I  made  sure 
it  was  you." 

**  I  do  not  understand." 

"  She  has  no  gentlemen  acquaintances  in  St  Ann's — she 

told  me  so ;  and  yet  that  letter  this  morning Captain 

Ffrench,  1  believe  you  are  lasting  with  lAt — it  Mtfx/have  been 
you." 

"  Miss  Lightwood,  I  am  still  *  far  wide.*  Awfully  stupid  ol 
me,  but  upon  my  word,  I  don't  understand  a  syllable  you  are 
laying.  Something  about  Miss  Charlton,  is  it  not  ?  She  hai 
not  been  with  me  ;  I  have  not  set'n  her  since  we  parted  after 
dinner.    Where  it  she  ?    Nothing  has  go:ae  wrong,  I  trust  ?  ' 


tN  TMM  tteUT  or  TBM  ttOOiT. 


n 


t 


**  Where  is  she  ?  "  repeats  Dora,  in  a  puxxled  toce  ;  ia 
her  room,  perhaps.  I  do  not  know;  she  has  not  been 
with  us  all  the  evening.     Captain  Ffrench,  it  is  the  oddest 

thing You  know  that  cluster  of  peach-trees  over  there 

by  the  orchard  wall  ?  " 

He  nods. 

**  Well,  an  hour  ago,  I  was  roving  through  the  grctmds 
tempted  out  by  the  beauty  of  the  night.      I  chanced  to 
pass   near  the  peach-trees,  and  I   saw  Eleanor   c^mAiling 
there,  talking  across  the  wall  to  a  man.     I  was  sure  it  was 
ycu,  and ** 

Bu  t  Captain  Ffrcnch  understands  her  now,  and  starts  up. 

"Not  another  word  I  "  he  says.  "  I  beg  your  pardon — 
but  I  did  not  comprehend.  Will  you  not  take  cold  out  here 
in  the  dew  ?  it  is  falling  heavily.  Have  all  the  good  people 
gone  to  bed  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  so."  Dora  bites  her  lip  angrily.  Fool  he  is 
not,  but  he  has  made  her  feel  like  one,  and  she  is  beginning 
td  hate  him. 

"  Then,  I  think  I  shall  follow  their  example ;  '*  he  strug- 
gles for  a  moment  with  a  yawn.  "  At  what  hour  to-morrow 
shall  I  expect  you,  Miss  I^ightwood  ?  I  and  the  Nixie  will 
be  at  yolur  service  from  five  o'clock." 

For  a  second  she  is  tempted  to  decline,  but  discretion  is 
the  better  part  of  valor.  Dora  has  this  advantage  over  Mrs. 
Charlton,  she  has  her  pride  and  her  temper  well  in  hand. 

"  Oh,  that  is  an  unearthly  hour,"  she  says  with  her  shrill 
lau|^h.     "Say  half-past  six ;  I  never  can  be  ready  sooner." 

"Half-past  six  then.  Good-night,  Miss  Ligh^ood,"  and 
without  ceremony  he  goes. 

Dora's  work  is  done ;  the  beauty  of  the  night  nas  ceased 
«D  tempt  her.  But  she  stands  a  moment,  and  it  is  no  loving 
glance  she  casts  after  the  tall  captain.  She  follows  slowly, 
ascends  to  her  room,  the  sleepy  housekeeper  fastens  doon 
and  windows,  and  silence  reigns  within  and  without. 


, 


i'   I 


!ii  !'l 


Im' 


'I  I 


1 1 

i 


is  J  I 

\ 


70  MOfT  rHE  GAME  WAS  MADE, 

VerA  lifts  a  dark  head  from  her  pillow,  amd  openi  twa 
sleepy  dark  eyes. 

"  Is  it  you,  Dot  ?  at  last.  What  a  time  you  have  been. 
You  were  with  Captain  Dick,  weren't  you  ?  Isn  t  he  eplen* 
did  ?  Oh  1  how  sleepy  I  am  I  "  a  great  yawn.  "  And  thii 
is  the  end  of  our  first  day,  such  a  long,  delightful  day  1  Dot, 
I  never  want  to  leave  Charlton  as  long  as  I  live." 

She  is  aslefp  as  she  says  it.  Her  sister  stocpt  aiKf  kisMi 
her 

"i^sui  -1  »u  shall  not,  littl*  Vera  I  **  is  her  ansirer. 


CHAPTER  IX. 


HOW  THE  GAME   WAS  MADE. 


FORTNIGHT  has  passed,  fourteen  long,  sunny, 
summer  days.  One  after  another  they  dawn  and 
darken ;  morning  after  morning  the  sun  rises  in 
fiery  splendor,  baking  the  earth,  and  sky,  and  grass,  and 
human  beings,  until  the  eye  grows  weary  of  the  perpetual 
dazzle,  and  longs  for  gray  shadows,  and  drifting  clouds,  and 
the  refreshing  patter  of  rain.  No  rain  has  fallen  all  the 
fourteen  days,  no  clouds,  except  long  white  mare's  tails,  and 
billows  of  translucent  white,  have  floated  over  the  brilliant 
blue  of  the  sky.  But  August  is  here,  the  sultriness  is  inde- 
scribable, and  as  before  dawn  it  is  darkest,  so  at  its  hottest, 
it  must  cool  o£f.  Changes  in  sky,  and  sea,  and  land,  pro- 
claim that  a  mid-summer  tempest  is  at  hand,  an*^  that  kindly 
showers  will  soon  refresh  the  quivering  earth. 

At  Charltoi.'  Place,  life  goes  on  with  little  outward  change 
or  incident,  but  each  in  her  way,  and  very  qvetly,  all  these 
good  people,  according  to  their  light,  lure  making  their  littli 
game. 


tBM  GAME   WAS  MADE, 


ff 


The  heat  prevent!  much  going  abroad^  but  in  the  carl| 
Biorning,  and  dewy  evenings,  Captain  Dick  devotes  himselt 
to  his  step-father's  fair  guests,  like  the  gallant  gentlema  i  he 
is.  There  are  long  rows  and  sails,  in  the  pink  da^^^.  and 
^e  white  night,  long  drives  or  rambles  in  the  starry  K\  '^"tghti 
%  picnic  once  out  in  the  woods  behind  St.  Ann's,  visits  to 
Shaddeck  Light,  where  lengthy-limbed  Daddy  reigns  alone. 
For  Captain  Ffrench  has  pretty  well  thrown  aside  scientific 
booksy  and  charts,  and  drawings — if  he  is  to  give  up  Hondu- 
ras, what  are  all  these  things  but  bitterness  of  spirit  ?  There 
has  been  a  dinner  party  at  which  the  nobility  and  gfer.try  of 
St.  Ann's  have  mustered  strong-  *  Howells,  the  DeeringSi 
the  Sleights — all  the  landed  proonf  rs  have  been  bidaen, 
and  have  come.  There  have  ?,  "en  a  few  innoxious  high 
teas,  perpetual  croquet,  a  gooc  '.ial  of  piano-playing,  and 
unlimited  flirtation.  For  du  ing  August,  young  men  come 
to  St.  Ann's  and  fish  up  iu  J  e  hill-side  tarns,  tirive  fast 
horses,  play  polo  and  billiards,  and  recuperate  generally, 
amid  the  daisies  and  dandelions,  causing  innumerable  flutten 
among  the  unappropriated  hearts  spoken  of  in  Captain 
Ffi-ench's  letter,  and  adding  insult  to  injury,  when  they  say 
smiling  good-byes  under  the  August  moon,  and  depart  an 
scathed. 

They  love  and  they  ride  away,  these  brilliant  golden  youths, 
sons  and  nephews  of  the  first  families  mentioned  above,  and 
reck  little  of  the  cracked  vestal  hearts,  and  sighing  autumn 
winds  they  leave  behind. 

Matters  progress  smoothly  at  Charlton.  The  master  of 
the  manor  beams  through  his  double  eyeglass,  and  sees  all 
things  working  together  to  accomplish  the  desire  of  his  heart. 
Dick  goes  no  more  to  Shaddeck  Light.  He  makes  a  social 
martyr  of  himself  anc*.  drinks  iced  tea  and  lemonade,  loafs 
with  his  hands  in  h's  pockets,  amid  the  croquet  players,  with 
no  outv»ard  u  oi  tiie  mward  disgust  that  consumes  him; 
takes  Elcan      >ut  for  Irngthy  rambles  in  the  gray  of  the  July 


fS 


now  THE   GAME    WAS  MADE, 


cveningt,  Is  charioteer  of  the  ^"aXnX.y  phaeton^  ana  bowli  ha 
over  the  long,  dusty  country  roads,  prevails  upon  her  to  gel 
ttp  mornings  and  go  out  with  him  upon  the  high  seas  in  the 
Nixie.  Sometimes  Vera  is  of  the  party,  oftener  they  arc 
alone.  Once  or  twice,  Mr.  Charlton  has  come  upon  him 
stretched  at  beauty's  feet,  in  the  long  golden  afternoons, 
leading  aloud  Tennyson,  or  Mrs.  Browning,  and  a  muscular 
young  man  must  be  pretty  far  gone  when  he  comes  to  that 
Eleanor's  sweet  serious  face  is  a  book  the  astute  old  gentle* 
man  cannot  read — if  she  suffers,  she  suffers  in  silence,  and 
trains  her  countenance  well.  Of  the  storms,  the  scoldings, 
the  reproaches,  the  coaxings,  the  tempests  of  tears,  that  ob- 
tain almost  nightly,  no  one  dreams.  Perhaps  Dora  guessei 
— those  pale,  cold  blue  eyes  of  hers  glitter  with  maliciously 
knowing  light,  sometimes,  but  certainly  no  one  else  does. 
She  is  forced  upon  Richard  Ffrench,  neither  he  noi  she  can 
avert  it — "  who  is  stronger  than  his  fate  ?  " — and  she  accepts 
her  p.art  almost  apathetically.  She  cannot  get  away,  and 
until  he  speaks  she  can  say  nothing.  He  is  not  very  badly 
hurt,  and  she  likes  him  for  his  honest,  simple  desire  to  please 
his  father.  She  looks  at  him  with  kindly,  half  amused,  hall 
vexed  eyes,  as  he  follows  her  about,  moodily  sometimes,  and 
witli  his  heart  en  route  to  Central  America,  but  always  bright- 
ening at  her  smile. 

Captain  Dick  has  quite  made  up  his  mind  to  obey,  h«a 
written  to  Dr.  £nglehart  to  tell  him  so.  Ah  1  what  a  pang 
that  letter  cost  him.  No  woman  could  ever  lacerate  the 
captain's  heart  as  that  letter  did.  Since  he  is  to  obey,  he 
will  obey  with  a  good  grace — cheerily  given,  is  twice  given  ; 
and  with  Eleanor  for  his  wife,  and  croquet,  and  afternoon 
tea  at  an  end  forever,  surely  he  will  be  an  ungracious  dog 
if  he  if  not  happy.  At  present  thf  slops,  and  the  balls,  and 
mallets  are  part  of  his  duty  as  a  wooer,  and  Dick  Ffrench  bo* 
Ueves  in  facing  his  duty  without  flinching.  Every  day  hit 
Admiration  for  Eleanor  becomes  more  profound ;  it  is  a  UU 


JTOH'  THE   GAME    WA^   MADE, 


n 


eral  education  to  converse  with  her.  And  then  (he  ii  M 
gooc,  so  pure,  so  earnest,  so  true. 

"A  man  should  go  up  a  ladde*'  to  look  for  a  Liend,  md 
down  a  ladder  to  look  for  a  wife,"  says  the  cynical  old  axiom, 
but  Richard  Ffrench  has  not  a  grain  of  cj'nicism  in  him,  and 
does  not  believe  it.  Mentally,  he  holds  a  man's  wife  should 
be  his  equal,  morally,  his  superior.  Veneration  is  an  essential 
element  in  his  love  ;  Miss  Charlton  commands  homage  and 
esteem,  wherever  she  goes.     If  a  man  cannot  be  Kappy  ai 

her  husband Lying  on  his  back,  on  the  grass,  his  hands 

clasped  under  his  head,  his  eyes  on  the  sailing  clouds,  Dick 
breaks  off  here.  What  right  has  he  to  think  she  will  ever 
accept  him  ?  Is  it  likely  that  so  charming  a  girl  has  reached 
three-and-twenty  with  her  heart  untouched  ?  He  does  not 
tike  the  idea  of  leasing  for  life  a  heart  that  has  held  former 
lodgers,  and  been  swept  and  garnished  after,  for  him.  Dora's 
iting  has  not  rankled  ;  he  is  the  most  unsuspicious  of  human 
beings  ;  her  little  poisoned  shaft  has  fallen  harmless.  And 
Mrs.  Charlton  has  told  the  governor,  who  has  told  him,  that 
it  will  be  all  right. 

Confound  the  old  lady,  Dick  thinks — it  ii  brushing  the 
bloom  off  his  peach,  it  is  desecrating  what  should  be  sacred 
to  Eleanor  and  himself,  this  vulgar  match-making.  Is  not 
the  uncertainty,  the  doui  t,  the  hope,  the  despair,  balf  the 
delight  of  wooing  ? 

No  word,  no  look  of  hers,  have  ever  held  out  the  faintest 
hope ;  the  smile  that  welcomes  his  coiain  ];,  speeds  his  part- 
ing ;  she  is  as  serenely  unconscious  of  his  transparent  meaning, 
as  that  star  up  yonder,  tremulous  in  the  blue.  Well — it  ia 
best  so— who  cares  for  the  plum  ready  to  drop  into  hii  mouth 
the  moment  it  is  opened  ? 

No  more  than  the  others,  can  he  see  the  pain,  the  sluune, 
the  martyrdom,  the  girl  endures  for  his  sake.  In  her  room 
at  night,  the  old  battle  rages,  mutely  on  her  part,  furiously 
on  her  mother's.     It  is  the  gref  t  stake  of  Mrs.  Ch  dton's 


80 


MOW  THE  GAME  WAS  MADE, 


liii.i 


'!l!l 


nliiii 


I  i.  I 


1 . 1 


life,  all  her  hopes  are  in  it  As  the  mother  of  the  rich  Mra 
Ffrench  her  future  is  secured.  Shall  she  for  a  whim,  a  non 
sensical,  sentimental  whim  of  Eleanor's,  yield  her  point  ?  W« 
none  of  us  like  to  be  beaten — Mrs.  Charlton  likes  it  lesi 
than  the  majority ;  in  point  of  fact,  she  seldom  knows  when 
she  is  beaten,  and  often  wins  in  the  end  through  sheer  ob> 
Btinacy  and  pig-headedness.  So  the  nightly  war  goes  on* 
The  field  is  free  to  £leanor,  now,  even  Dora  has  accepted 
defeat  gracefully,  and  retired.  To-morrow  or  the  next  day, 
Richard  Ffrench  will  speak  ;  it  is  only  for  £leanor  to  say  a 
simple  "  yes,"  and  open  paradise  to  her  whole  family. 

Dora  has  retired  from  the  contest.  With  perfect  good 
humor  Miss  Lightwood  has  resigned  the  prize ;  is  "scratched," 
in  sporting  parlance,  for  the  race ;  has  thrown  up  the  sponge 
to  Fate ;  has  lain  down  her  cards  before  the  game  has  fairly 
begun.  A  smiling  change  has  come  over  her;  she  is  the 
sunshine  of  the  house ;  she  is  gracious  even  to  Mrs.  Charlton. 
No  one  of  them  all  is  as  much  at  home  in  Charlton  as  she.  She 
inspects  the  dining-room  and  table,  before  each  meal,  adomt 
it  with  flowers,  and  flits  about  like  a  sunbeam.  In  the  even- 
ings, when  Eleanor  wanders  through  the  grounds  with  Dick, 
or  Vera  plays  in  unison  with  the  violin,  Dora  takes  a  hand 
at  whist,  with  a  dummy,  and  the  dowager,  and  the  master  of 
the  house.  She  does  not  know  much  about  the  obsolete 
game,  but  she  is  bright  and  quick,  and  learns  rapidly.  Some* 
times  her  eyes  wander  away  from  her  trumps,  to  the  pair  at 
the  piano,  or  to  the  cool,  wide  window,  and  a  singular  smile 
gleams  in  her  eyes.  Perhaps  that  conversation  over  t}ie 
prdiard  wall  has  something  to  do  with  it ;  both  these  people 
are  transparent  to  her. 

When  the  lover  speaks,  the  maiden  will  say  no.  And  in 
his  pain,  his  ch.  grin,  to  whom  so  likely,  as  to  her  soothing 
little  self,  is  tHis  big  blundering  captain  likely  to  turn? 
Heaits  and  rubber  balls  are  best  caught  on  the  rebound. 
Dora  is   making  haste  slowly,  and  meantime  is  winning 


Mi) 


MOW  THE    ZAMR    VAS  MADE. 


folden  opinions  fiom  all  sorts  or  people — from  the  kitchen* 
maids  below  stairs,  to  the  Seigneur  of  Charlton,  who  calli 
her  the  sunbeam  of  the  house. 

For  Vera,  the  last  of  this  family  group,  she  is  fairly  puzzled 
To  give  up  anything  on  which  she  has  once  set  her  heart,  ii 
not  like  Dura,  and  yet  Dora  seeuis  to  l»e  d  jing  it  here.  She 
has  resigned  almost  without  a  struggle.  Presently  Charlton 
will  be  but  a  beautiful  dream  of  the  past,  and  life  will  recom 
mence  amid  the  crash,  and  turmoil,  and  din,  and  dust  of 
New  York.  Oh  1  dear  I  And  Dot  must  go  bacc  to  the 
show-rooms  on  Fourteenth  Street ;  poor  Dot  I  who  is  never 
strong,  wiio  has  a  hacking  cough  in  the  winter,  who  has 
something  the  matter  with  her  heart,  and  vho  was  told  long 
ago  that  a  life  free  from  care  and  anxiety  was  absolutely 
necessary  to  her.  It  is  for  Dot,  Vera  mourns.  But,  after 
all,  if  Captain  Dick  cares  for  Nelly,  Nelly  he  must  have. 
In  all  the  world  there  is  neither  king  nor  kaiser  lo  be  named 
in  the  same  breath  with  this  splendid  Captain  Dick,  who  hai 
been  everywhere,  and  seen  and  done  everything ;  who  has 
fought  like  a  hero,  who  is  gentle  as  a  woman,  who  is  strong, 
and  brave,  and  good,  and  kind,  and  learned,  and  clever, 
and — in  one  word — perfection. 

It  is  simply  one  of  the  fixed  laws  of  nature,  that  Captain 
Dick  shall  have  everything  he  wants,  and  if  he  wants  Eleanor, 
Eleanor  he  must  have,  and  the  loss  is  poor  Dot*s — that  is 
all.  Nelly  is  the  dearest,  the  sweetest  of  created  beings  j 
ine  is  almost  good  enough  even  for  the  peerless  Richard,  and 
Vera  hopes  in  her  warm  little  heart,  they  will  be — oh,  so 
happy.  Sometimes,  perhaps,  in  the  summers  to  come,  they 
may  invite  her  and  Dora  down,  and  it  is  good  and  roagnani- 
nious  of  Dora  to  give  up  so  easily,  and  devote  herself  to  the 
house,  and  the  card-playing,  and  refur^e  to  go  with  them, 
even  when  she — Vera — n-akes  a  third,  and  laugh  and  stay  at 
borne,  and  write  ketters  iax  Mr.  Charlton,  and  rit  ;>erintend 
Ihings  generally,  as  if  she  were  Dick's  sister,  and  the  li*tl« 
4* 


Ttse=> 


It 

li 

.1 


th   !     I 
|1:    ! 


.)       I 


!  I 


■I  I 


la 


irotr  THE   GAME   WAS  MADK 


daughter  of  the  house.  Vera  is  all  in  a  glow  of  admirati^A 
lor  her  sister,  for  Eleanor,  for  Dick.  There  never  were  lucb 
lovely  people;  she  thinks,  with  enthusiasm,  nor  such  a  para* 
dise  of  a  place  before, 

*  «  «  *  «  *  • 

But  a  changt  is  at  hand.  For  the  last  two  days,  the  sui 
has  gone  down  lurid  and  angry ;  copper-colored  clouds  chase 
each  other  over  the  sky,  the  surf  booms  sullenly  down  oi 
the  sand,  a  coming  storm  is  near.  The  moral  atmosphere 
is  charged  with  electricity  as  well,  a  crisis  is  at  hand.  Elea- 
nor looks  pale  and  frightened,  Richard  loses  his  appetite  to 
an  extent  that  alarms  Vera.  He  smokes  a  great  deal  more 
than  is  good  for  him ;  he  has  been  out  for  two  successive 
flights  on  the  Bay.  Vera  wonders  if  everybody  has  it  as  badly 
as  this,  and  if  so,  how  is  it  that  married  men  and  women  look 
«o  dreadfully  commonplace  and  prosy,  all  the  rest  of  theu 
lives.  She  wishes — ^for  Dick's  sake — it  were  well  over,  she 
wishes,  for  Dick's  sake,  that  Eleanor  would  put  him  out  of 
his  misery,  and  let  him  have  a  Christian  relish  for  his  victuals, 
and  a  sensible  night's  sleep  once  more. 

One  afternoon — ^it  is  drawing  close  upon  dinner-time — she 
curls  herself  up  among  a  pile  of  cushions  in  the  dusky  draw 
ing-room,  and  drops  asleep.  It  has  been  oppressively  sultry 
all  day ;  the  weather  is  asphyxiating ;  to  double  up  some- 
where and  go  to  sleep,  is  a  necessity  of  life.  Vera  sleeps 
and  dreams.  She  dreams  of  the  person  who  was  last  in  hei 
waking  thoughts,  Captain  Dick .  She  is  urging  upon  him  a 
large  slice  of  bread  and  butter,  and  he  is  gloomily  declining. 
Can  hread  and  butter,  he  darkly  demands,  minister  to  a  mind 
iiseased  ?  It  is  certainly  Captain  Dick's  voice  that  is  speak 
^ng,  aiad  the  tone  is  more  tense  and  troubled  than  that  is 
which  one  generally  declines  the  staff  |f  Ufe.  It  is  a  •up' 
pressed  tone,  too. 

**  It  ;»  real])  no,  thei  ?"  he  :*s  saying,  **  there  is  no  hope  ? 

*'  i;  \%  wOy    fiincther  voice,  a  distreised  voice,  this  tinM, 


now  TME  CAME   WAS  MADE. 


•l 


answeis.  "  Oh !  Captain  Ffrench,  do  you  not  thine  I  ?roul4 
have  prevented  this  if  I  could  ?  But  what  could  I  do  ?  You 
do  not  know — you  do  not  know " 

**  I  know  that  for  all  the  world  I  would  not  distress  you,* 
the  deeper  tone  breaks  in  ;  '*  that  you  gave  me  no  reason  to 
hope.  I  know  that  I  hold  you  higher  than  all  women,  and 
that  if  you  could  care  for  me,  it  would  make  the  happinesi 
of  my  life.  I  am  not  worthy  of  you — few  men  could  be ; 
but  as  Heaven  hears  me,  I  would  try.  Eleanor  1  think  again 
— ^must  it  be  no  ?  " 

**  It  must  be  no." 

And  then  Vera  starts  up  in  wild  affright,  and  stares  about 
her.  They  do  not  see  her,  but  there  they  are,  standing  to- 
gether by  the  window.  Their  backs  are  turned — the  door  is 
near — she  must  escape.  Oh  1  how  awful  if  they  should 
catch  her  here — a  spy  I  In  a  moi  tal  panic  she  rises,  sidles 
out  of  the  room,  and  sits  flat  down  or^  the  hall  floor— <:nished  1 

Crushed  1  It  is  all  over,  the  great  agony  is  at  an  end,  he 
has  put  his  fate  to  the  touch  and  lost  it  all.  Eleanor  has  re- 
fused him,  refused  Richard  Ffrench,  refused  the  heir  of 
Charlton,  refused  the  best,  the  bravest,  the  most  beautiful  of 
his  sex,  refused  a  hero,  a  demi-god,  refused  Captain  Dick  / 
Vera  sits  stunned.  There  are  antitheses  the  human  mind 
declines  to  take  in — this  is  one.  To  refuse  Captain  Ffrench, 
for  any  woman  to  say  no  to  such  a  man  1  By  and  by  Vera 
may  get  over  this ;  at  present  the  blow  has  felled  her.  She 
sits  }>erfectly  motionless.  Captain  Dick  has  asked  Eleanor 
to  marry  him,  and  Eleanor  has  said  no. 

And  then  in  Vera's  breast  a  great  indignation  rises  and 
burns.  How  dare  she  1  To  think  of  her  presuming  to  make 
him  unhappy  ;  of  her  presuming  to  refuse  him  anything  !  I( 
she  feels  so  crushed,  so  outraged,  how  must  he  feel  ?  It  is 
as  if  the  regicidal  hand  of  the  base-born  Beggar  Maid  had 
lifted  and  stabbed  King  Cophetua  to  the  I  eart,  in  the  hocr 
t/  his  kingly  condescension  i     She  wiil  nevei  like  Eleano) 


i 


lii 


m 


III 


i 


ti 


m 


84  MOW  THR   G4ME   WAS  MALK 

any  more,  never.  Nothing  that  can  happen  to  her  \nl1  eve* 
be  too  bad.  She  deserves  to  have  io  teach  music  to  the  last 
day  of  her  life,  she  deserves  to  have  such  a  mother,  she  de- 
serves to  be  an  old  maid.  Oh  I  why  has  it  not  been  Dot  ? 
Dot  would  never  have  said  n:>.  Dot  would  not  have  made 
him  miserable.  What  will  Mr.  Charlton  say?  and  will  Dick 
nish  away  in  a  frenzy  to  the  other  end  of  the  world,  to  the 
torrid  or  the  arctic  zones,  and  become  a  gloomy  misanthrope 
forever  after  ? 

A  sound — a  door  opens — it  is  Eleanor  coming  out.  She 
nearly  stumbles  over  Vera.  Her  face  is  pale,  her  eyes  red, 
ihe  has  been  crying.  Good  enough  for  her.  Vera  thinks, 
viciously  ;  she  hopes  she  will  cry  her  eyes  and  nose  as  red 
as  they  deserve  to  be.  She  flashes  a  glance  of  anger  and 
scorn  upon  her,  but  Miss  Charlton  does  not  seem  to  see  it. 
She  hurries  away,  and  upstairs.  And  then  through  the 
open  door-way  Vera  sees  Captain  Dick,  his  hat  pulled  well 
over  his  eyes,  striding  down  the  garden,  and  out  of  sight. 
Vera's  first  impulse  is  to  go  after  him  to  comfort  him,  and 
Vera's  rule  of  life  is  to  act  on  impulse.  She  is  on  her  feet  in 
a  moment,  but  before  she  can  dart  off,  Dora  comes  rustling 
down-stairs,  in  a  dinner  dress,  as  blue  as  her  eyes,  and  lays 
hold  of  her. 

**  Where  are  you  going  ?  "  she  asks. 

"After  hi.n,"  answers  Vera,  "don't  stop  me,  Dot  II 
fon  knew  how  unhappy  he  is " 

"  Ah  I"  says  Dora,  and  laughs,  "you  have  overheard  then 
— it  has  come  ?     She  said  no,  of  course  ?  '* 

"She  said  no,  and  I  hate  her!  "  cries  Vera. 

"  I  thought  it  was  coming — I  have  seen  the  signs  and  the 
tokens  before,"  laughs  Dora,  still  retaining  her  hold.  **  No, 
my  dear,  you  must  not  go  after  Captain  Dick  ;  it  would  not 
be  proper ;  he  w  ^uld  not  thank  you,  and  he  is  past  all  com^ 
forting  of  yours.  But  he  will  get  over  it,  it  is  a  way  mea 
have.     How  ioes  my  hair  look  done  in  this  style,  and  d« 


THM  BSD  OP  THE  tAIKT  TALM. 


ss 


not  these  pink  roses  go  exquisitely  ¥iith  this  shade  ot  VA^ic  ? 
I  am  afraid  my  charming  toilet  will  be  thrown  away  cm  poor 
Captain  Dick.**  Dot's  elfish  laugh  sounds  more  shrill  tbta 
usual.  *'  He  snubbed  me  unmercifully  one  night,  not  lo^g 
ago— it  is  my  turn  now." 


CHAPTER  X. 


THE   KND  OF  THE   FAIRY  TALI. 

I  LOOM  has  fallen  upon  the  Charlton  household.  It 
is  so  dark  at  half-past  six,  the  dinner  hour,  that 
they  are  forced  to  light  the  gas.  Miss  Charlton 
has  a  headache,  and  does  not  appear.  Captain  Ffrench  comes 
in  late,  and  manfully  does  his  best  to  seem  as  usual,  but  the 
effort  is  not  the  success  it  deserves  to  be.  Vera's  eyes,  in 
their  wistful  brown  beauty,  rest  on  him,  full  of  mingled  ad- 
miration and  compassion.  She  thinks  of  the  Sparfan  boy 
and  his  cloak,  and  the  wolf  gnawing  at  his  vitals — or  was  it  a 
fox  ?  The  race  of  Spartans  is  not  extinct,  for  here  is  Cap- 
tain Dick  essaying  cheerful  commonplaces,  and  sipping  veuv* 
cliquot^  as  though  he  liked  both,  bearing  himself  as  bravely 
as  though  his  heart  had  not  just  been  broken.  Dora  shinet 
with  abnormal  brilliancy,  her  blue  eyes  flash,  her  delicati 
cheeks  flush,  her  shrill  laugh  rings  out ;  she  rallies  Captain 
Dick  until  he  barns  to  shy  his  dinner-plate  at  her.  She  is  a 
■ocial  meteor,  quite  dazzling  in  fact,  and  Mr.  Charlton,  look- 
•Ag  and  listening  admiringly,  wonders  what  the  house  will  be 
like  when  she  is  gone. 

After  dinner  Vera  goes  to  tiw?  piano.  She  is  fond  of  miislc, 
and  the  evening  is  the  only  time  cool  enough  for  so  mrch 
exertion.  Mechanically,  Dick  follows  her,  and  leans  widi 
folded  arms  upon  the  instrument,  staring  in  a  b'ank  tort  d 


II 


i;i; 


86 


TMM  END  OF  THE  FAIMY  PAUL 


I 


1 1 

I 
<  i 

'I 


way  at  a  picture  on  the  wall  above  it^  It  is  Cenci ,  ini  tlM 
dusk  prophetic  face,  with  its  haunting,  wistful  eyes,  remindf 
him  somehow  of  Vera  herself.  He  is  glad  to  get  away  from 
Dora  \  her  covert  innuendoes  have  been  stabbing  him  like 
knives. 

**What  a  little  devil's  doll  she  is  1 "  he  thinks,  with  very 
unusual  savagery.  '*  How  does  she  come  to  know  anything 
about  it  so  soon  ?  " 

Vera's  music  soothes  him.  A  dreary  sense  of  loss  and 
pain  oppresses  him.  If  he  were  only  free  to  go  with  the  ex- 
pedition— if  the  governor  had  not  wrung  that  half  promise 
from  him.  For  the  present  he  must  go  away  sciTiewhere,  it 
would  be  horribly  uncomfortable  for  Eleanor  to  have  him  in 
the  house.  How  nobly  she  spoke,  how  lovely  she  looked, 
with  great  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  divine  pity  in  her  face.  Ah  I 
\i^  never  deserved  such  a  prize,  great  rough  fell<  '^  that  he  is, 
anvi  yet  if  she  could  have  cared  for  him 

"  The  moon's  on  the  lake,  and  the  mist's  ok  the  brae, 
And  the  clan  has  a  name  that  is  nameless  by  <'£t//' 

Vera's  sweet,  strong  voice  rings  out  s  tritedly  the  stirring 
Scotch  ballad. 

It  is  oppressively  clooe.  Sheet  lightning  is  blazing  m  cx>q- 
tinual  zig-zags  a-il  aloL,;^  the  horizon — paling  the  yellow  gleam 
of  the  lamps.  Now  and  then,  a  great  drop  plashes  audibly 
outside ;  from  the  sea  comes  at  intervals,  a  low,  weird  moaD- 
ing,  as  of  a  sentient  thing  in  pain.  The  trees  writhe  and  toss 
wildly  in  the  darkness — all  nature  feels  the  coming  convul- 
sion, and  shrinks. 

"  The  storm  is  very  near,"  says  Mr.  Charlton,  lifting  hii 
white  head     "  We  will  have  it  to-night." 

They  do  not  talk  much,  this  evening,  the  oppression  of 
ihe  atmospheric  change  is  upon  them  all.  But  Dora  keeps 
brilliant  and  sparkling  to  the  last ;  plays  a  game  of  chess 
with  her  host,  and  going  to  the  piano  afterwards,  sings,  at  his 


TBK  MJTD  OF  THE   fAIttY  TALE, 


«r 


hii 


request,  the  old  time  love  ditty  of  Barbara  Allan.  Captain 
Ffrench  does  not  leave  his  post,  and  the  malice  in  the  spark* 
ling  eyes  of  ^hc  singer  gleams  laughingly  out  as  she  locks  up 
at  him. 

"  Then  slowly,  slowly,  cam«  she  up, 
And  slowly  came  she  nigh  him. 
And  all  she  said,  when  there  she  came, 
*  Young  man,  I  think  you're  dying  I '  " 

**  It  is  cunous,"  she  says,  and  laughs,  "  but  Nelly  aiwayt 
puts  me  in  mind  of  cruel  Barbara  Allan.  I  can  fancy  het 
walking  up  to  the  deathbed  of  some  love-lorn  swain,  and 
calmly  saying,  'Young  man,  I  think  you're  dying  ! '  Werth- 
er's  Charlotte  must  have  been  of  that  type,  pale,  passionless 
— don't  you  think  so  ?  You  remember  Thackeray's  funny 
version  of  the  tragedy — '  Charlotte,  when  she  saw  his  body 
borne  past  her  on  a  shutter,  like  a  well-conducted  person, 
went  on  cutting  bread  and  butter.'  Nelly  wo^'ld  go  on  cut- 
ting bread  and  butter  too.  What  do  you  think  about  it, 
Captain  Ffrench?" 

She  is  laughing  immoderately  at  the  young  mark's  disgusted 
face,  and  without  waiting  for  reply,  returns  to  the  clies«'.iable, 
and  challenges  Mr.  Charlton  to  another  gani"  W^  th  the 
streaioing  light  of  the  chandelier  full  upon  het,  her  gleaming 
pretti.-aess  looks  uncanny.  Mrs.  Charlton i^ atch^s  her  souiiy 
for  a  while,  then,  complaining  o    che  heat,  gets  up  "•>■  i  goes. 

"Tell  poor  dear  Nelly  how  nuch  we  have  missed  her," 
calls  l»ora,  with  her  mockint-  smile;  **  I  do  so  hope  het 
headache  is  better.  To-morrow,  you  know.  Captain  Ffrench 
and  Mr  Fred  Howell  are  to  ike  us  over  to  the  Pine  Barren. 
It  wcnk<  be  such  a  pity  if  she  coiik'i  not  go." 

A  ntalevolent  glance  is  the  elder  lady's  answer.  Not  a 
spark  of  Dora's  eldritch  malice  is  lost  upon  her.  All  even- 
ing she  has  been  uncomfortable.  Eleanoi's  absence,  and 
%eaciache — she  is  not  subject  ♦^^  headache  ;  Dick  Ffrench's 
moody  siloncc — these  are  ilArr.'.:ng  ti>keru,      Can  ii  b*— (Ul 


'!?]•■ 


:i;il 


■'  '^lil 


)!•  ' 


mi 


U' 


ij 


ii  rax  BND  OF  THE  FAIRY  TALE, 

the  sultriness  of  the  airless  night  her  blood  chills  at  tfui 
thought) — can  it  be  that  Eleanor  has  carried  out  her  tecklesi 
threat,  and  refused  him  ?  Refused  Charlton  1  refused  tho 
finest  fortune  in  the  State.  Her  hands  clench,  her  hard  eyet 
flash.     If  she  has 

The  gloom  deepens  with  the  morning,  both  witr.xD  and 
without.  All  night  long  the  rain  has  poured  in  torrents,  is 
pouring  still,  when  Vera  comes  down-stairs.  It  hardly  waits 
to  pour,  it  drives  in  white  blinding  sheets  of  water,  over  land 
and  sea,  it  drifts  furiously  against  the  glass,  it  beats  down 
flowers  and  trees.  A  high  wind  is  blowing  c  Jtside.  Where 
she  stands  Vera  can  hear  the  thunder  of  the  surf  on  the 
ihore  ;  it  is  no  child's  play  down  among  the  white  caps,  this 
August  morning.  How  those  white  sea-horses  must  tow 
their  foamy  manes,  and  churn,  and  break,  and  roar  about 
Shaddeck  Light.  She  hopes  Daddy  13  not  nervous,  alone 
there  on  that  lonely  rock,  in  this  shrill  whistling  storm.  How 
go»od  of  Captain  Dick  to  have  rescued  that  poor  half-witted 
lad,  the  butt  of  the  town,  half-starved,  wholly  beaten,  and 
given  him  a  home  in  the  little  island  house. 

She  wonders  how  Captain  Dick  feels  this  morning,  if  he 
slept  la^.t  night.  People  crossed  in  love  do  not,  as  a  rule, 
sleep  over  well.  Vera  has  understood.  Who  would  have 
thought  Eleanor  could  be  so  oold-hear'.ed,  so  cruel,  so  blind 
to  so  :2uch  perfection.  But,  perhaps,  she  likes  some  ont 
else  ;  it  seems  impossible  though  that  any  woman  rould  be 
taithful  to  any  man,  after  seeing  this  king  among  men. 
Sufely  infidelity  in  such  a  case  would  be  a  positive  vixtae. 
There  must  be  some  reason.  No  sane  human  being  could 
do  so  extraordinary  a  thing,  without  i  powerful  motive. 

Perhaps  Eleanor  has  a  clandestine  husband  already,  down 
there  in  Louisiana — she  has  read  of  such  things  in  novels, 
Vent's  ideas  are  thrown,  so  to  speak,  on  their  hind  legs  ;  shi 
tt  ttying  with  all  her  might  to  account  fbi   Eleanor's  fbUy 


TSE  END  OF  THE  FAIRY  TALE. 


els. 

Ishi 


She  finds,  upon  consideration,  that  she  cannot  hate  her,  that 
the  is  more  disposed  this  morning  to  look  upon  her  in  sorrow 
than  in  anger ;  but  ihe  reason  that  is  strong  enough  to  make 
her  say  no  to  Captain  Dick,  is  beyond  all  surmise  of  hers. 

As  she  stands,  £leanor  comes  down.  Her  face  is  start* 
Ungly  palo,  her  eyes  have  a  wild,  hunted,  frightened  look,  aiJ 
the  sweel  and  gracio  js  calm,  that  makes  her  greatest  charm, 
ii  gone.  She  looks  as  though  she  had  not  slept,  her  lipi 
tremble,  as  she  says  good-morning. 

'*  You  are  sick  I "  Vera  exclaims.  *'  You  look  as  if  you 
had  been  sick  a  week.  Were  you  awake  all  night  ?  Wat  it 
the  storm  ?  " 

She  makes  a  gesture  of  assent,  and  coming  close  to  the 
window,  lays  her  forehead  against  the  glass,  with  a  sort  of 
low  moan.  Vera's  eyes  fill  with  a  great  compassion.  Can  i: 
be  that  she  loves  Captain  Dick  after  all,  that  some  reason 
obliges  her  to  refuse  him,  and  that  she  is  suffering  9iX  this 
anguish  on  his  account  ?  She  softens,  the  last  remnant  of  her 
indignation  fades  away.  Miss  Charlton  is  not  wholly  har? 
dened  then,  after  all. 

'*  Does  your  head  ache  still  ? "  she  softly  asks,  coming 
close.     "  Poor  dear  Nelly  I     I  am  so  sorry." 

Eleanor  passes  her  arm  around  the  girl's  slender  waist,  but 
does  not  otherwise  reply.  In  her  eyes  there  is  such  hopeleu 
trouble,  such  dark  terror,  that  it  frightens  Vera. 

How  is  the  child  to  know  of  the  horrible  scene  enacted  in 
Eleanor's  room  last  night — of  the  bitter  storm  of  reproaches, 
of  vulgar  vituperation,  of  fierce  threats,  under  which  she 
•hrank  and  cowered  ?  She  turns  sick  at  heart  now,  as  she 
Kecalls  «t  In  all  her  mother's  furious  lagcs,  sfte  has  never 
ieen  the  fury  of  last  night  equalled.  She  has  not  slept  at 
all ;  her  head  aches,  her  body  aches,  her  heart  aches,  she 
•eems  one  sickening  ache  from  head  to  foot.  And  it  is  to  go 
on  forever,  day  after  day,  month  after  month,  the  same 
oiiferable,  ceaseless  scold,  scold,  scold,  to  the  bitter  end. 


Wl»   «t4»^«/ •'«.*«¥«'  • 


s'       H! 


m 


90 


rif£  END  OF  THE  FAIRY  TALE, 


Mrs.  Charlton  does  not  appear  at  breakfast,  llie  troA 
ii,  sh«  has  raged  herself  ill,  and  into  a  fit  of  blackest 
sulks.  Eleanor  is  forbidden  to  enter  her  room,  whether  she 
lives  or  dies,  to  speak  to  her  no  more,  until  she  comet 
lo  her  senses.  One  of  the  maids  fetches  her  up  tea  and  but* 
tered  toast ;  her  daughter  knows  her  too  well  to  dare  to 
disobey. 

Captain  Ffrench  is  absent  aiso.  Late  last  night,  it  seems, 
after  the  family  had  retired,  he  went  to  St  Ann's,  and  now,  of 
course,  is  storm-bound.  Dora  trips  down,  the  sparkle  of  last 
night  scarcely  dimmed.  Not  all  the  sweeping  tempest  of 
wind  and  rain  is  able  to  blur  one  jot  of  her  gay  brightness. 
Mr.  Charlton  comes,  but  less  debonair  than  usual.  In  point 
of  fact  his  old  enemy,  rheumatic  gout,  has  been  shooting 
warning  twinges  for  the  past  two  or  three  days,  and  this 
morning  he  is  barely  able  to  hobble  to  breakfast.  He  knows 
what  is  in  store  for  him,  doubly  trying  now,  with  a  houseful 
of  fair  guests,  but  it  is  one  of  the  things  no  hne  old  gentleman 
of  his  years  and  habits  can  hope  to  escape,  and  he  puts  the 
best  possible  face  on  his  afHiction. 

Dora  is  full  of  sweetest  commiseration,  Eleanor  has  a  far- 
a  ay  frightened  look  still  in  her  eyes,  and  eats  nothing  at 
aM»  Vera  feels  that  in  common  sympathy  she,  toc-,  should 
eat  nothing,  with  the  whole  family  so  to  say  in  extremis , 
but  her  appetite  remains  a  painful  and  powerful  fact,  and 
will  not  be  said  nay.  She  is  ashamed  of  herself,  and  con* 
rames  muffins  and  fresh  eggs  in  a  sneaky,  aiologetic  fashioOf 
and  is  relieved  when  the  ordeal  is  over. 

And  now  the  Ion*'  '  *y  begins.  Rain,  rain,  rain— oh  I 
how  it  pours — it  looks  as  if  it  might  come  down  .or  a  week. 
Mr.  Charlton  is  forced  to  return  to  hi?  study,  leaning  on 
Dora'?  arm  which  she  insists  on  his  taking.  They  look  so 
•bsurd — the  tall,  elderly  invalid,  and  the  mite  of  a  wcmaOi 
hobbling  away  together,  that  Vera's  gravity  is  nearly  upset 
Certaiuly  sh^  is   an  unfeeling  little  wretch,  to   be  able  Xq 


TME  M.VD  OF  TMM  FAIRY  TAUL  P 

Uugh  with  everybody  else  so  miserable,  so  the  fkm  ily  f» 
presses  a  small  grin,  and  heaves  a  sigh  instead. 

What  shall  she  do  with  herself  all  this  long  wet  dftjr 
Dora  does  not  return,  Eleanor  goes  upstairs ;  she  is  all 
alone  in  the  big,  silent  house.  What  a  dismal  change  two 
days  have  made.  Perhaps  Captain  Dick  will  come  back  no 
more.  It  is  not  the  rain  that  detains  him  in  St.  Ann's — ah  1 
no,  he  is  neither  sugar  nor  salt  to  care  for  a  drenching.  He 
has  been  crossed  in  love,  and  is  dying  hard  over  there  at  th« 
St.  Ann's  Hotel.  Perhaps  he  will  start  for  Central  America, 
and  never  even  come  back  to  say  good-by. 

Vera  is  absurd,  but  she  is  none  the  less  nnhappy  ;  she  hai 
unutterable  sympathy  for  Captain  Dick,  she  has  a  mild  regret 
for  Eleanor.  She  gazes  forlornly  at  the  rain,  life's  troublM 
are  so  much  easier  to  bear,  when  the  weather  is  propitious. 
And  then  there  is  sickness  in  the  house,  and  it  will  seem 
unfeeling  to  sit  down  and  practice.  If  one  could  only  sleep 
all  day  I  But  one  cannot,  so,  with  another  vast  sigh.  Vera 
gets  up,  goes  for  a  book,  and  prepares  to  devote  the  long 
hours  to  literature. 

Evening  comes,  and  brings  little  change.  It  still  rains, 
the  sky  looks  sullen,  the  black  surcharged  clouds  good  for 
two  days  more  of  it.  Mrs.  Charlton  descends  to  dinner,  but 
Lot's  wife,  changed  to  a  basaltic  column,  was  never  more 
frigid,  more  awful.  Their  host  is  unable  to  appear — he  hag 
been  suffering  martyrdom  all  day ;  even  Dora,  ministering 
angei  that  she  is,  can  do  little  to  assuage  his  anguish.  The 
absent  heir  cometh  not,  but  just  before  dinner.  Daddy  comei 
with  a  note.     It  is  for  Mr.  Charlton,  and  is  of  the  briefest 


on 
so 

an. 
let 

to 


**  My  Dcak  Governor  : — Englehart  came  to-^ay,  and  is  at  the  St. 
Ann's.  He  means  to  stay  a  week  or  two,  to  recruit,  having  been  laid 
■p  lately.  Knowing  your  prejudice,  I  will  not,  of  course,  bring  him  to 
Charlton,  but  shall  remain  with  liim  here  instead.  Make  njr  apolagp« 
totheUdiaa. 

"Ever  jronrs,  R.  C.  F.» 


^ 


rjnf  EUD  OF  TME  FAntY  Tdt^ 


1 . 1 

m 


Vil 


Mr.  Chftrlton't  face  darkeni  heavily  at  he  retdf  <hli 
Naturally  he  is  choleric,  he  hates  to  be  thwarted ;  by  tei» 
per  he  is  imperious,  although  as  yet  his  step-son  has  seen 
little  of  this.  A  man  may  be  good-humored  and  hot-tempered 
easily  enough  at  the  same  time.  He  has  never  very  strongly 
opposed  himself  to  Richard  Ffrench  as  yet,  he  has  been 
comparatively  a  poor  man  until  of  late,  and  nevet  felt  jutti> 
fied  in  coming  between  the  lad  and  his  whims.  But  now  it 
is  different.  If  Dick  prefers  this  vandering  Dr.  Englehart 
to  him,  why  then  Dick  must  take  the  consequences.  Dora 
has  hinted  something  to  him  to-day,  which  he  finds  it  diffi- 
cult to  believe — that  Eleanor  Charlton  has  refused  him.  Ii 
the  girl  mad  ?  He  hardly  knows  how,  but  Dora's  talk  hai 
irritated  him  to  a  most  unusual  degree  against  Richard.  Hii 
illness,  too,  has  made  him  nervous  and  excitable.  The  lint 
must  be  drawn  somewhere  j  he  is  prepared  to  take  his  stand 
here.  Dick  must  pay  some  deference  to  his  wishes  ;  all  he 
has,  he  is  willing,  nay  anxious  to  give  the  boy.  It  is  a  noble 
inheritance.  He  loves  him  as  he  loves  nothing  else  on 
earth,  he  wants  him  with  him,  and  he  must  have  him.  He 
Is  growing  old ;  it  is  only  fair  his  son  should  stay  with  him, 
that  there  should  be  some  return  for  so  much  la\nsh  gener- 
osity and  affection.  It  is  a  selfish  monologue,  partly  engen- 
dered by  irritating  pain,  partly  by  wily  words  of  Dora.  That 
is  a  charming  little  girl,  he  thinks — on  the  whole  he  begini 
to  prefer  her  to  Eleanor.  He  does  not  fancy  young  people 
under  a  cloud — then  Eleanor  has  a  mother,  and  as  a  permii' 
nence  Mrs.  Chailton  is  not  to  be  desired. 

Outside  the  rain  pours  steadily  and  monotonously — insid« 
there  are  silent  rooms  and  some  gloomy  faces.  Dora's 
spuiis  never  flag  through  the  whole  of  it.  She  appoints  her- 
self  sick-nurse,  she  writes  letters,  she  reads  aloud,  her  touch 
is  soft  and  soothing,  she  never  wearies,  she  manufacture! 
her  own  sunshine,  and  brings  it  with  Uer  into  the  dim  chanv 
ber  of  torture.     If  any  earthly  thing  or  creature  could  allc 


Ttn  MND  OF  TTHJi  FAiRY  TALM, 


9S 


on 


fiate  the  agony  of  rheumatic  gout — which  they  caABOt-— it 
irould  be  Dora  and  her  doings. 

Night  falls  wet  and  starless — another  morning  dawnik 
Still  the  rain  comes  down  persistently,  doggedly,  still  the  sky 
if  lowering,  still  the  surf  roars  and  breaks  over  sand  and 
fhingle.  Another  long  day  for  Vera  to  yawn  tlirough,  and 
ttare  blankly  out  of  blurred  window-panes,  to  wander  aim- 
lessly about  the  house.  She  visits  Eleanor  in  her  chamber, 
but  her  risit  is  a  dreary  one.  Dot  is  taken  up  with  the  sick 
seigneur,  Mrs.  Charlton  is  Hke  a  gorgon,  these  days,  and  tb« 
girl  flies  at  her  approach.  Vera  has  heard  of  the  evil  eya^ 
and  ponders  whether  Elearior's  awful  mother  has  not  got  it— 
a  pair  of  them  indeed.  And  where  is  Captain  Dick  ?  Oh  I 
where,  in  all  this  world  of  rain,  and  wind,  and  mist,  and  mit* 
ery,  and  love-sickness,  and  gout,  is  Captain  Dick  ? 

Another  night,  another  day,  and  then  her  hero  comes. 

He  comes  after  breakfast,  looking  little  the  worse  for  wear. 
His  heart  xczrj  be  broken,  but  he  has  neither  lost  vigor  not 
good  looks.  On  the  contrary,  he  is  brighter  than  when  he 
left,  and  he  greets  Vera  with  the  old  pleasant,  half  mischier- 
ous  smile. 

Vera  is  glad,  but  a  trifle  disappointed  all  the  same ;  it  is 
better  for  him  to  take  it  in  this  way,  but  it  is  not  the  way  the 
gentleman  in  Locksley  Hall  took  it,  or  that  other  poetical 
party  in  Lady  Vere  de  Vere.  They  scowled  and  gloomed, 
and  abused  their  young  women  (in  hexameters)  for  ytMX% 
after.     If  Dick  is  a  hero  it  is  his  duty  to  behave  as  such. 

Captain  Ffrench  has  come  to  see  his  step-father,  and  ii* 
ushered  by  Dora  into  that  dusk  temple  of  pain,  of  which  she 
has  elected  herself  priestess.  Mr.  Charlton  lifts  a  face  all 
drawn  and  haggard  with  two  days  of  torment. 

*♦  My  dear  governor,"  the  young  man  says,  leanmg  cvei 
the  back  of  his  sofa,  '*  this  is  too  baa.  You  so  seldom  have 
an  attack  of  this  kind  in  summei  either.  How  did  you  rest 
test  night  ?     I  trust  the  pain  was  not  altogether  unbearable." 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


% 


■V^-^ 


M. 


<" 


1.0 


I.I 


1^128     |Z5 

1^ 


U£ 


i 
■"mi 

":    140 


2.2 

2.0 


L25  |||||_^  11^ 


Photographic 

Sciences 
Corporation 


33  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)  872-4503 


4^   4^' 


94 


MND  Of    TMM  PAtitr  TAUL 


pi! 


!! 


*<  RhcamAtic  gout  is  slways  unbearatle,"  aniw««  ICr 
Charlton,  angrily.  '*You  need  not  ask  how  I  rested,  I 
never  rested  at  alL  I  have  not  slept  for  three  nights. 
Why  don't  you  curat  home  ?  what  are  yoa  doing  over  then 
at  St  Ann's  ?  Is  v  QOt  enough  that  I  must  bo  laid  up  bf 
the  legs,  but  you  must  desert  our  guests  too  ?  " 

**  I  explained  all  that,  you  know,  governor,  im  my  noto. 
Ez^ehart  is  there " 


i< 


Englehart  be  hanged  I  What  have  you  to  do  with  thai 
wandering  Ishroaelite  ?  Send  him  to  the  dogs,  and  retan 
home  to  your  duty." 

"That  hardly  sounds  like  jtou,  sir — T  don't  think  foa 
quite  mean  it.  He  is  partly  on  the  invalid  list,  too,  aad 
on!y  able  to  hobble  with  a  stick.  As  to  his  being  a  wander- 
ing  Ishmaelite,  that  is  true  enough,  but,  unfortunately,  /an 
of  the  Ishmaelitish  tribe  as  well." 

"  Have  been,  you  mean.  We  have  changed  all  that,  if 
you  remember." 

"Governor,"  sap  Dick,  in  his  most  conciliating  voice. 
**  that  is  what  I  have  com«  especially  to  speak  to  you  about. 
I  gave  no  promise,  that  evening,  you  know,  I  only  said  1 
would  try.    I  have  tried — and  it  c&anot  be  done." 

Mr.  Charlton  half  rises,  and  glances  angrily  at  the  young 
man.  Pain  and  sleeplessness  hu.ve  almost  changed  hif 
nature ;  he  is  morbidly  irritable,  and  Dora's  hinta  are  nab 
ling  poisonously  in  his  mind. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  he  demands. 

"  Don't  be  angry,  governor.  I  am  going  with  the  Expe- 
dition." 

Mr.  Charlton  is  staring  at  him — a  glassy  stare  of  imaa/o 
and  anger.  He  cannot  fcr  a  moment  tsJke  this  in.  He  has 
made  so  sure  of  Richard — that  half  promise  extorted,  «eems 
to  have  made  his  stay  a  certainty.  \nd  now  to  corne  and 
tell  him  deliberately  that  he  is  going 

**  Don't  be  angry,"  Dick  dep.ecatingly  repeats,  **  I  hate  if 


TBR  END  OF  TME  FAIEf  TAUL 


offend  yoa— on  my  honor  I  do,  lir.  Yon  are  fo  uncommonly 
good  to  me — always  have  been — I  cannot  forget  it,  I  never 
will  forget  it  But  all  the  lame,  I  want  you  f^o  let  me  go. 
Say  yes,  this  once,  sir,"  he  leans  over  him  cuaxmgly,  *'  and 
it  shall  be  Qhe  last  time.     I  promise  you  that." 

*'Yon  will  do  precisely  as  you  please,"  Mr.  Charlton 
answers,  suppressed  passion  in  every  tone.  "  1  withdraw 
all  claim  upon  you  from  this  hour.  You  are  eight-and- 
twenty — ^you  are  your  own  master.  Only  do  not  let  vi 
have  any  talk  of  goodness  or  gratitude ;  protestations  don^t 
count  for  much,  when  every  action  of  your  life  gives  then 
the  lie." 

Dick  starts  up,  his  face  flushes  dark  red.  He  walks  away, 
and  begins  pacing  up  and  down. 

"This  is  rather  hard,"  he  says,  after  a  moment,  '*  what  am 
I  to  do  ?  I  wrote  to  iliiglehart  resigning  my  commission, 
and  he  and  the  rest  of  the  scientific  corps  refuse  to  accept. 
That  is  why  he  is  here.  He  holds  me  to  my  pledge.  What 
am  I  to  do  ?  I  ask  you,  governor ;  in  honor  I  stand 
bound.     I  have  promised." 

There  is  no  reply.  Mr.  Charlton  it  so  intensely  angry 
that  he  is  afraid  to  allow  himself  to  speak. 

"  I  cannot  go  from  my  word,"  Dick  goes  on,  <*  they  can- 
not fill  my  place  at  a  moment's  notice,  and  the  Expedition 
cannot  afford  the  inevitable  delay.  Come,  sir  I  "  he  stops 
before  him,  and  looks  down,  distressed  pleading  in  his  frank, 
honest  eyes,  **  be  reasonable.  Consent  to  my  going — ^it  will 
be  but  for  a  year  or  two,  at  most,  and  then  I  bind  mjrself  to 
devote  the  whole  remainder  of  my  life  to  you." 

"  You  are  exceedingly  kind  ;  I  am  sixty-four  years  of  age, 
and  can  count  so  confidently  on  many  future  years  of  life. 
No,  sir,  1  refuse  my  consen*^.  You  must  choose  between  Dr. 
Englehart  and  me,  between  Honduras  and  Charlton,  and 
you  must  abide  by  your  choice.  Both  yon  cannot  have. 
Choose  w'hidi  you  pleas.^,  but  remember  your  choice  i«  for  life,' 


R'l  ' 


I  ! 


Vu 


i  i 


11  : 


!    I 


96  rVS  ZATi?  O^  rii£  FAIRY  TALE. 

The  calm  young  eyes  look  tteadily  down  into  the  fierj  oU 
ones. 

"  Does  that  mean,  sir,  that  when  I  say  good-by  it  is  fof 
good  and  all  ?     That  I  am  to  return  here  no  more  ?" 

'*  Exactly  I "  Mr.  Charlton  answers,  and  the  fiery  glance 
never  Ainches. 

Dick  draws  a  hard  breath,  turns,  and  resumes  his  walk 
Ke  is  sincerely  attached  to  his  step- father,  and  feels  this 
blow  exceedingly. 

"  If  you  go  with  Dr.  Eng^ehart,"  Mr.  Charlton  says,  his 
Toice  harsh  with  pain,  "  it  will  be  because  you  prefer  him  to 
me;  prefer  your  own  roving  fancy  to  my  happiness  or 
wishes.  I  make  no  claim  upon  you,  you  are  free  to  go  if  yov 
see  fit.  I  have  never  thwarted  you  before — 1  am  resolute 
now.  If  you  go,  in  every  way  in  which  I  can  forget  you,  I 
will  forget  you — in  every  way  in  which  I  can  blot  your  mem- 
ory out,  it  shall  be  blotted  out.  You  understand  me,  sir — xsi 
every  way." 

'^  You  talk  plainly,  governor — I  would  be  a  blockhead  in- 
deed, if  I  did  not  understand." 

"  As  to  your  promise  to  the  scientific  corps,  that  is  rub* 
bish.  There  are  men  who  can  fill  your  place,  not  only  son* 
wnose  duty  calls  them  at  home.  It  is  not  your  promise,  but 
your  inclination,  that  is  taking  you,  and  you  know  it." 

Silence.  Dick  walks  up  and  down,  his  hands  in  hit 
pork^tv  with  downcast  and  disturbed  face.  The  elder  msm 
'jratches  him  keenly. 

*'  And  there  is  Miss  Charlton."  he  resumes,  "  it  strikes  me 
your  honor — this  extremely  nice  and  touchy  honor  of  yourS| 
Dick — is  at  fault  there.  You  have  paid  her  very  marked  at- 
tention, you  have  led  her  and  hei  mother  to  believe  y^m. 
measit  to  marry  her.  Is  it  in  accord  with  your  high  code,  to 
pay  such  attention,  and  then  desert  the  lady  at  the  Uft 
moment  ?     Or  have  you  spoken  and  been  rejected  ?  " 

Here  is  a  quandary  1     What  is  he  to  say  ?     If  the  troth,  kft 


rff22  MJiTD  OF  TBB  FAIMY  TdlM, 


97 


lid 
fol 

[10« 

alk 
thii 

,  hit 
n  to 
s  or 
[y<« 
olute 
oil,  I 
iicm- 
r — ^in 

in- 

rub- 

soni 

;,  but 

In  hit 
man 

les  me 

^ours, 

led  at- 

yon 

[►de,  to 

le  last 

ith«ka 


compromises  Eleanor  irretrievably  as  far  as  his  (athei's  testa^ 
mentary  intentions  are  concerned,  and  she  is  so  poor,  so 
poor.  He  takes  his  hands  out  of  his  pockets,  and  rumples 
up  hi9'  hair,  in  a  perfect  fever  of  embarrassment  and  distress^ 

<*  It  seems  a  difficult  question  to  answer,"  says  Mr.  Charl« 
ton,  sarcastically.  "Well,  don't  perjote  yourself,  my  lad.  I 
know  all  about  it     You  asked  and  she  refused — ^the  jade  \ " 

"  Who  told  you  that  ?  " 

**  Never  mind  who.  She  is  a  fool,  and  must  pay  for  hei 
telly.     But  if  you  are  leaving  on  her  account " 

**  Governor,*  says  Dick,  anxiously,  "  do  not — do  not,  I 
beg,  let  this  mfluence  you  against  Miss  Charlton.  From  first 
to  last  she  never  gav«  me  the  slightest  encouragement  Do 
not  hold  her  accountable  for  her  mother  s  rash  promises,  for 
her  mercenary  hopes.  Miss  Charlton  is  the  truest,  noblest 
woman  I  have  ever  met,  and — and  you  know  her  life— one 
*  demnition  grind '  the  year  round.  Do  not  punish  her  for 
i^hat  she  could  not  help.  Be  geneions,  sir,  to  this  young 
lady!" 

"  Miss  Charlton  has  made  her  choice,"  Mr.  Charlton  an- 

swers,  coldly  ;  '*  she  too  shall  abide  by  it     We  will  not  talk 

of  this  poor  young  lady,  if  you  please — we  will  settle  your 

affair.      When  does    Dr.    Englehart    propose  leaving  St 

Ann's?" 
"  In  a  few  days — next  week  at  the  furthest" 

"  And  you  go  with  him  ?  " 

**  I  must     The  Expedition  starts  on  the  twenty-fourth.** 

"You  go  with  the  Expedition?" 

"  It  is  inevitable.  Be  merciful,  sir  I  I  woild  rather  cat 
aff  my  right  hand  than  dehberately  offend  you,  but  I  stand 
i>ledged.     My  word  has  been  given.     I  cannot  retract" 

"  Very  well.     How  much  money  do  you  want  ?" 

**  Sir !  "  Dick  reddens  through  his  brown  skin. 

**  How  much  money  do  you  wfint  ?  1  presume  the  scieiit 
ti&c  corps  will  not  supply  all  your  wants.  Hand  me  mj 
S 


p 


98 


TMM  END  OF  THE  PAOtY  TALE, 


!    I 

Ml 

i    ! 


ri 


■ !; 


check  jook,  if  you  please — I  will  gir e  you  a  blank  check 
which  jFOu  can  fill  up  at  your  leisure.  And  with  it  you  will 
kindly  consider  our  cornection  at  an  end.  Any  intention! 
I  may  have  announced  regarding  the  disposal  of  my  proi>- 
erty,  so  far  as  you  are  concerned,  are  frcm  thia  moment 
withdrawn." 

The  flush  fades  from  Dick's  face,  his  lips  set,  his  eyes  tiash^ 
he  stops  in  hk  walk,  and  regards  the  older  man  steadily. 

''That  taunt  was  not  necessary,  sir.  Whatever  opinion 
you  may  have  held  of  me  in  the  past,  I  do  not  think  yoa 
ever  believe  the  consideration  of  your  fortune  influenced  any 
action  of  mine.  And  it  never  will.  Bestow  it  upon  whom 
fou  please — ^no  one  in  the  world  hns  less  right  to  it  than  I. 
I  have  but  one  parting  favor  to  ask — that  you  will  permit  me 
to  return  once  more  to  Charlton,  and  say  a  friendly  farewell 
to  you.*' 

He  takes  his  hat  He  is  very  pale,  and  his  eyes  have  a 
pleading  look.     He  holds  out  his  hand. 

"  Come,  governor,"  he  says,  '*  we  cannot  part  like  this.  1 
am  afraid  I  look  like  an  ungrateful  dog,  but — but  1  know 
how  I  feel.  A  fellow  can't  put  that  sort  of  thing  into  words^ 
but  by  Jove  I  am  sorry " 

He  breaks  oft,  and  diaws  nearer.  But  Mr.  Charlton, 
quite  ghastly,  between  bodily  pain  and  mental  emotioi^ 
waves  him  away. 

''  Such  a  parting  would  be  a  farce.  Come  home  to  stay^ 
and  you  know  what  sort  of  welcome  awaits  you.  Go  witk 
your  friend,  and  as  my  son  I  renounce  you.  There  can  Ih 
Bo  half-way  course." 

''Then  good-by,  since  it  must  be  so." 

He  turns,  opens  the  door,  lingers  yet  one  moment,  m 
hope  of  some  sign  of  relenting,  but  the  invalid  lies  with 
closed  ey^s,  spent  and  exhausted.    And  so  Dick  leaves  hina. 

Is  it  fancy,  or  does  he  hear  the  rustle  of  skirts  away  from 
^he  door  ?     He  is  too  perturbed  to  tell,  but  a  second  after* 


4.-.^ 


heck 
iwUl 
itionf 
proi>* 
»meni 

k  yo« 

whom 
han  L 
mitme 
areweU 

have  ft 

tYOM.     1 

know 
wordi» 

irlton^ 
lotion^ 

•tay, 

|;o  wuu 

can  tM 


^ent,  m 

;s  with 

les  hinL 

Ly  from 
Id  after. 


rJDT  MJfD  OF 

I>ora's  tmiling  little  face  looks  out  at  aim  through  another 
half-open  doer. 

**  Going  again,  Captain  Ffrench  ?  Will  ycu  not  stay  to 
luncheon  ?  No  ?  How  unkind  of  you  I  How  lor.g  is  yom 
tiresome  friend  going  to  keep  you  over  in  St  Ann's  ?  Send 
him  back  to  New  York,  and  come  home.  We  all  miss  you  /« 
much." 

Dick  smiles  at  the  plaintive  tone,  and  runs  down-staira. 
He  distrusts  this  little  woman — he  knows  she  does  not  mean 
a  word  she  is  saying — he  knows  she  dislikes  him. 

**  Where  is  Miss  Vera  ?  "  he  asks. 

**  Waiting  for  you,  somewhere.  The  child  has  been  mop> 
ing  herself  to  death  in  your  absence.  In  common  humanity 
to  her,  you  really  ought  to  return.  Do  come  back,  Captain 
Ffrench  I " 

She  waves  her  little  white  hand  gayly,  and  trips  away  to 
the  sick-room.  The  smile  fades  from  Dick's  face,  he  sighs 
impatiently,  as  he  strides  down  the  hall,  and  takes  a  last  look 
at  everything. 

**  If  s  uncommonly  hard,  by  George  t "  he  thinks  moodily. 
**  I  hate  like  the  deuce  to  row  with  the  governor,  but  what  am 
I  to  do  ?  Englehart  claims  me,  and  he  claims  me,  and 
whose  claim  is  best  ?  It's  a  muddle — ah  I  my  little  Vera  I 
I  was  just  '^oing  in  search  of  you.  Let  me  look  at  you. 
Why,  you  are  actually  looking  pale.    What  is  the  matter  ?  ** 

**  Nothing,"  the  girl  says,  all  her  great  gladness  in  her 
shining  eyes,  "  since  yau  have  come  1  How  long  you  have 
been  away.  Captain  Dick." 

He  smiles  down  into  the  artless  child's  eyes,  pleased  and 
toothed. 

'*  Has  it  seemed  long  t  It  was  the  weather  and  not  my 
absence,  I'll  wager  a  ducat  You  would  never  have  missed 
me  if  the  sun  had  shone." 

*♦  Ah  I  you  kn^w  better  than  that,"  Vera  answers,  neaving 
a  sigh  of  vast  content      How  good,  how  pleasant,  how  com' 


WMM  MMD  OF  TMB  PdMT  TAtM, 


f  '  'I! 


f   I 


forUble  It  seemi  to  have  Captain  Dick  at  home-  -to  hear  hfj 
deep  tonei,  to  lee  his  lofty  stature  in  this  Household  cl 
iromen.     It  gives  the  last  touch  ..o  the  perfection  of  Her 
paradise.     "  If  the  sun,  and  moon,  and  stars,  all  shone  to 
gether,  I  would  miss  you  just  the  same." 

<*  By  Jove  1 "  he  says,  and  laughs,  "  how  flattering.  I 
thought  my  vanity  had  received  its  death-blow  the  other  day, 
but " 

"  I  know  what  you  mean,"  Vera  interrupts,  hastily.  "  Oh, 
Captain  Dick,"  clasping  her  hands,  "what  will  you  think  ol 
me  t  I  was  there,  I  overheard  all  1  At  least  I  heard  you — 
and  Miss  Charlton  said — oh  1  don't  be  vexed,  please  1 "  im- 
ploringly, **  I  was  asleep  on  the  5ofa,  and  the  room  was  so 
dark,  and  you  both  came  in  while  I  was  lying  there,  and 
didn't  see  me,  and  when  I  awoke  you  were  talking  and        ** 

A  light  breaks  upon  Dick.     His  face  grows  grave. 

"  And  you  told  the  gov — Mr.  Charlton,  Vera  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  no  I  I  told  Dot — no,  I  didn't  tell  her — she  found 
me  sitting  in  the  hall,  and  seemed  to  know  all  about  it.  I 
have  wanted  to  tell  you  ever  since.  I  never  said  a  word  to 
any  one ;  I  would  not  do  anything  so  mean*" 

"  Not  even  to  Miss  Charlton  ?  " 

"No.  I  think  Eleanor  is  horrid — I  can't  iE>ear  her  ever 
«ince.  At  least,  I  don't  quite  mean  that,  you  know,  I  think 
tfbe  is  just  lovely,  only——" 

Captain  Ffrench  smiles  again.  The  outspoken  honesty 
and  simplicity  of  this  little  girl  have  amused  him  from  the 
first ;  her  unconcealed  fondness  and  admiration  for  himself 
flatter  him  as  a  matter  of  course.  Captain  Dick  is  emi- 
nently mortal,  and  in  no  interesting  little  weakness  above 
his  sex. 

<*  My  dear  little  Vera  I  "  you  are  the  stanchest  of  friendi, 
and  the  dearest  little  woman,  without  exception  in  the 
world.  I  wonder  now,  if  you  will  write  to  me,  when  I  an 
down  there  among  the  silver  mines.     I  am  sure  you  write 


rmm  mkd  of  tmm  faimt  tamjl 


duurning  leften^-and  tell  me  all  tbont  yoanelf  And—yw-* 
about  Dot  t " 

Vera*s  eyes  dilate — the  itandi  ttill  and  looks  up  at  him  ia 
blank,  sudden  terror. 

'<  Down  among  the  silver  mines  I  What  lilver  mines  I 
You  are  not  going  away,  Captain  Ffrench  ?  " 

<*  Ah  1  but  I  am,  and  you  will  be  a  tall,  fascinating  jroung 
lady  long  before  I  come  back.     But  you  are  not  to  forget  me, 

mind.     I  shall  look  for  those  letters Why,  Vera,  my 

dear  1 " 

She  has  turned  away  from  him,  and  covered  her  face  with 
her  hands.    The  blow  is  so  sudden,  so  sharp. 

**  Vera,"  he  says,  "  my  dear  little  Vera  I  "  But  she  docf 
not  look  up.  "  Why,  my  pet,  are  you  so  sorry  as  this  I  I 
did  not  think — Vera  t  "  He  tries  to  take  her  hands  away, 
but  she  struggles  and  resists. 

"  Oh !  don't,"  she  says,  in  a  stifled  vofce,  "  let  me  be.     It 
—it  isn't  that  1 "  struggling  bravely,  "  I — I  think  I  am  net 
vous.     It  is  the  weather " 

"  Of  course  it  is  the  weather,"  he  returns,  promptly ;  **b© 
ing  shut  up  in  the  house  so  much,  is  enough  to  give  anv  one 
the  horrors.  And  it  is  a  little — ^just  a  little — that  yon  are 
sorry,  too  ?  " 

<<  Oh  1  I  am  sorry !  I  am  sorry  1  I  am  sorry  1 "  she  says, 
and  breaks  down.  The  last  barrier  gives  way,  and  slie  sobs 
with  all  her  heart. 

There  is  only  one  sort  of  consolation  for  trouble  of  this 
kind,  that  Captain  Dick  knows  of,  and  that  is  to  take  her  in 
his  arms,  and  give  her  a  kiss.  Words  are  failures.  He  is 
pleased,  he  is  touched,  he  is  embarrassed,  he  feels  inclined 
to  laugh.  She  is  such  a  child,  such  a  simpleton — not  that  ha 
thinks  her  a  simpleton — not  at  all.  Such  a  tall  child,  too,  up 
to  his  shoulder,  now  that  they  stand  in  tliis  delicate  pros* 
Imity, 

**  Don^  Vera,"  he  says. ''  please  don't.     If  anybody  cama 


1  I' 

'  'I' 


lOS 


TME  EMD  OP  TMM   fAUtY  TAUL 


There  I  let  me  wipe  them  away ;  **  he  takei  out  hii  hanJkei 
chief^  and  pei forms  this  needful  office.  **  Don't  cry  any 
«x>re.    And  youUl  promise  to  write  to  me  when  I  am  gona  ?  *' 

"Oh I  yes,  yes." 

"  And  you  won't  forget  me  ?  " 

"  Oh  I  no,  no."     (A  fresh  flood.) 

**  And  you  will  let  Daddy  take  you  out  in  the  Nixie  ?  It 
will  do  both  you  and  the  Nixie  good." 

"No I"  Vera  cries,  "nol  1  will  never  set  foot  in  the 
Nixie  again  1  Oh  1  what  must  you  think  of  me  for  crying 
like  this.  But  it  is  so  horrid  to  have  p — p — people  you  like 
go  away  to  hateful  places,  and  n — n — never  come  tuick  1  " 

"  But  I  am  coming  back,  my  dear,  in  two  years." 

Two  years !  why  not  two  centuries — in  the  eyes  of  sixteen 
are  they  not  the  same  ?    Vera  battles  heroically,  it  does  not 
become  her  to  cry,  though,  to  do  her  justice,  the  real  concern 
the  sees  in  Captain  Dick's  face  is  the  more  powerful  motive 
And  yet  that  questionable  smile  of  his  lingers  in  his  eyes. 

"  Well,  now,  Vera,  it  is  all  right  again,  isn't  it  ?  I  am 
going.  No,  it  is  not  good-by  *  for  good '  this  time — I  shall 
be  back.  Get  up  early  to-morrow — the  rain  is  over  for  the 
present,  and  I  and  the  Nixie  will  be  waiting  in  the  old  place. 
We  shall  have  half  a  dozen  matutinal  sails  yet,  before  we 
say  adieu." 

Then  he  goes,  and  Vera  is  alone  with  her  desolation. 
What  will  Charlton  be  without  Captain  Dick  ?  All  its  green 
beauty  will  be  but  a  fleeting  show,  for  her  illusion  given. 
The  Nixie,  the  island,  the  p.'ano,  the  basket-carriage — all 
are  filled  with  poignant  memories.  Why — why  must  \e  go  ? 
Why  did  this  hateful  man  at  the  hotel  ever  come  down  ? 
Why  does  not  the  earth  open  and  twallow  Honduras  and  all 
die  silver  mines  in  ihe  world  ? 

She  goes  slowly  back  to  the  house.  The  trail  of  the  ser- 
pent is  over  everything;  all — all  recalls  the  lost  one.  It 
ftc  hall  she  meets  Eleanor,  who  starts  to  see  the  pale,  tear 


TBK  MXl    OF  THE  FAIRY  TALE, 


108 


It 


Wotted  cheekif  and  reddened  eyes  of  the  bright  little  houte 
fiury. 

**  Why,  Vera,"  she  says,  and  puts  her  arm  about  her,  ''  my 
dear  child  what  is  the  matter  ?  " 

But  Vera  strikes  down  the  caressing  hand,  in  a  rery  foiy 
of  sudden  passion. 

"  Do  not  touch  me  1 "  she  cries,  her  black  eyes  blaxing^ 
^  I  hate  you.  He  is  going,  and  only  for  you  he  wouldn't 
have  gone.  I  never  want  to  speak  to  you  again,  as  long  af 
I  live  I  " 

She  dashes  away  and  up  to  her  room,  flings  herself  on  her 
l>ed,  and  cries  passionately. 

Her  great  hero  is  going — after  that  the  deluge.  She  will 
never  see  him  again.  Years  from  now,  he  may  return,  but 
where  will  she  be.  He  will  have  forgotten  her,  and  she 
likes  him — oh  I  she  likes  him  !  she  likes  him 

"  I  wouldn't  cry,  if  I  were  you,"  says  the  placid  voice  ol 
Dora.  She  has  entered  unheard,  drawn  by  the  sound  of 
vehement  sobbing ;  "  there  is  not  a  man  on  earth  worth 
blearing  one's  eyes  for,  and  not  one  of  them  all  was  won  yet 
by  crying.  He  will  come  ba^k,  my  dear,  and  then  if  you 
really  are  so  fond  of " 

Vera  starts  up,  goaded  beyond  endurance. 

"What  do  you  want  here?  Get  out  of  my  room.  Dot! 
How  do  you  know  I  am  crying  for — for  him  ?  I'n.  nti  / 
Go,  an^  leave  me  alone." 

And  Dora,  laughing  to  herself,  goes.     Vera  is  alone.     And 
this  is  the  end  of  her  fairy  tale.     It  keeps  saying  itseh 
and  over  in  her  mind — **  And  the  prince  went  away  tv 
Uf  fortune,  and  never,  never,  never  Game  back." 


ll 


104 


UULDMCK  UGMT, 


ii    * 


I  I 


i!i| 


CHAPTER  XI. 


fHADDICK    LIGHT. 


|HREE  days  have  gone  by.  To  the  casua.  obiervci 
they  have  brought  little  change,  but  changes  ther« 
are.  First  and  chief,  Mr.  Charlton's  attack  ii 
going  off ;  in  a  week  he  hopes  to  be  about  again.  Next,  the 
rain  is  over,  and  once  more  there  is  sunshine,  and  early  rising 
on  Vera's  part,  rows  in  the  Nixie,  and  visits  to  Shaddeck. 
The  agony  of  parting  is  inevitable,  but  it  is  yet  two  days  off, 
and  Vera  never  crosses  her  bridges  until  she  comes  to  them 
Captain  Dick  is  still  to  be  seen,  to  be  heard,  to  be  admired 
— next  Thursday  will  surely  come,  but  this  is  only  Monday, 
and  there  are  yet  forty-eight  hours,  two  thousand  and  eight 
hundred  and  eighty  minutes  between  her  and  desolation. 

It  is  the  evening  of  Monday.  Eleanor  Charlton  sits  in 
her  room — she  spends  most  of  her  time  there,  of  late,  and 
looks  out  with  dreary  eyes  over  the  fair  summer  prospect. 
She  is  at  odds,  it  seems,  with  all  the  household,  her  mother 
most  of  all.  For  tliree  days  Mrs.  Charlton  has  not  spoken 
to  her — she  is  the  sort  of  person  to  live  in  tiie  house  with 
you,  and  not  speak  to  you  for  a  month.  Not  that,  in  a  gen- 
eral way,  this  could  be  looked  upon  as  a  misfortune — rather 
the  opposite — but  it  is  sometimes  an  embarrassment.  Dora 
b  ^ways  pleasant ;  it  is  Dora's  rdle  to  smile,  and  smile,  and 
be  a  little  villain  ;  but  from  Dora,  Eleanor  has  instinctively 
ihniiik  from  the  first  Dora's  smiles  are  spurious  currency, 
not  sterling  coin.  Between  her  and  Vera,  a  cloud  hovert ; 
it  is  six  feet  high,  and  answers  to  the  name  of  Captain  Dick. 
Mr.  Charlton,  on  the  occasion  of  Eleanor's  only  visit,  haf 
received  her  with  such  chilling  politeness,  that  she  never  ha4 
the  heart  to  go  near  his  study  again.     He  knows  all,  ani  r^* 


i  1 1 


awAi}»Mcr  ummr. 


■•I 


tenti  her  reftiuil.  Captain  Ffrench  is  going  away,  an  J  the  ii 
responsible,  it  seems.  Charlton  is  no  longer  a  home,  even  a 
temporary  home  for  her.  She  has  thought  the  matter  out, 
and  made  up  her  mind  to  go.  She  had  intended  to  stay 
until  the  end  of  the  month,  but  that  is  impossible  now.  Oh  I 
if  she  could  have  but  foreseen,  and  never  come.  She  is  p&yi 
ing  dearly  for  her  fidelity  to  one  whom,  deep  down  in  hei 
heart,  she  knows  to  be  unstable  as  water,  yielding  as  shifting 
tand.  The  knowledge  is  there,  but  she  will  not  listen.  Loy- 
ally she  forces  herself  to  hope,  to  trust,  to  believe  in  this 
man,  to  whom — how,  she  knows  not — she  has  given  het 
heart  She  cannot  recall  the  gift,  because  growing  fear  is 
upon  her  that  he  is  unworthy,  selfish,  cowardly,  self-indnl- 
gent,  lazy.  Circumstances  are  against  him — it  is  not  his  will 
that  is  in  fault — by  nature  he  is  indolent  and  without  earnest- 
ness  of  purpose,  and  nature  is  an  obdurate  foe  to  fight 
Time,  age,  love  for  her,  will  work  wonders  ;  so  she  forces 
herself  to  believe.  She  respects,  admires,  likes,  esteems 
Richard  Ffrench.  He  is  in  earnest ;  with  all  his  might  he 
does  the  thing  which  his  hand  finds  to  do.  Life  to  him  is  no 
vapid,  wearisome  day,  to  be  yawned  through  anyhow ;  he 
has  energy,  resolution,  force  of  character,  strength,  all  that 
she  prizes  most.  If  Ernest  were  but  like  him  1  And  then, 
indignant  with  herself,  she  banishes  the  disloyal  thought 
Whatever  Ernest  is,  he  is  hers.  She  has  chosen,  and  she 
will  be  faithful  to  her  choice. 

It  is  a  sultry  and  overcast  evening.  It  has  been  at  its 
hottest  and  fieriest  all  day  ;  just  "aow  black  clouds  are  rising, 
•nd  there  is  that  oppression  in  the  air  which  betokens  a 
tfiunder-storm.  There  is  not  a  breath  of  wind  stirring,  na- 
ture stands  motionless,  bracing  itself  for  the  coming  shock. 
Presently  Eleanor  rises,  and  goes  lo  her  mother's  room.  It 
Is  the  hour  before  dinner,  and  she  knows  she  will  find  hei 
there.  She  is  paler  than  usual,  she  has  lost  flesh  and  strength 
hi  the  past  week,  she  feels  very  little  like  the  ordeal  before 


io6 


;mADDBCK  UQBT. 


iti   i  I 


I;   !  II 


her.    Bat  it  must  be  met,  and  Eleanor  CborltoA  ii  not  Ihf 
woman  to  shrink  plain  duty. 

Mrs.  Chariton  sits  hem-stitching  a  fine  poclcethandker* 
chief;  she  does  not  deign  to  glance  up  as  her  daughter  en 
ters  ;  her  dumb  familiar  still  holds  possession  of  her. 

<'  Mother,"  Eleanor  says,  plunging  into  the  worst  at  once 
•*  I  am  going  away." 

No  reply  ;  Mrs.  Charlton  stitches  away  with  the  steadineM 
of  a  machine. 

"  J.  am  unhappy  here ;  I  have  displeased  Mr.  Charlton, 
ofifended  Captain  Ffrench,  and  angered  you.  It  is  impossi* 
ble  for  me  to  stay.  1  am  sorry  I  came — sorrier  than  sorry  j 
nothing  remains  for  me  but  to  leave  at  once=" 

Silence.  An  angry  red  is  rising  over  Mrs.  Charlton's  large 
fleshy  face,  but  her  lips  only  tighten  into  a  tenser  line. 

"  I  have  money  sufficient  to  pay  my  travelling  expenses," 
Miss  Charlton  steadily  goes  on.  She  knows  her  mother,  and 
this  speechless  form  of  sulks,  too  well  to  be  surprised.  '*  You 
need  not  necessarily  shorten  your  stay  before  the  beginning 
of  September  ;  no  one  can  blame  you  for  my  acts.  I  am 
very  sorry,  mother,  sorry  that  I  have  pained  our  kind  hoFt, 
lorry  to  have  disappointed  you  ;  but  I  could  not  have  acted 
otherwise.  I  will  leave  on  Thursday  morning,  and  will  in- 
form Mr.  Charlton  of  my  resolution  to-day.  He  will  not 
object  to  my  going,  he  will  see  "hat  it  is  inevitable." 

Still  mute.  If  Mrs.  Charlton  were  deaf  and  dumb  she 
could  not  give  less  sign  that  she  hears.  Words  are  useless  ; 
has  she  not  tried  again,  and  again,  and  /et  again,  threats, 
icoldings,  denunciations,  commands,  entreaties,  tears.  She 
has  run  up  and  down  the  whole  gamut — in  vain.  Of  what 
use  is  it  to  waste  eloquence  on  such  a  heartless,  undutifu! 
daaghtei  as  this  ? 

**  If  you  would  but  forgive  me,  mother,"  Eleanor  Wf\ 
wistfully,  and  at  the  words,  as  flint  strikes  fire  from  stecU  tiw 
•pell  is  broken,  and  the  infuriated  woman  blazes  forth  ; 


1 


SHADDSCK  UOBT. 


Wl 


••  I  will  never  forgive  you  1 "  see  cries,  **  tever,  to  kelp 
Heaven  1    I  will  never  forgive  you  in  life  or  in  death  1 " 


i» 


In  hei  bedroom,  Vera  stands  before  the  glass  putting  the 
last  touch  to  her  dinner  dress,  and  eyeing  herself  with  sx* 
treme  disapproval.  How  thin  and  long  her  fact^  is,  to  be 
sure,  how  unnecessarily  like  black  saucers  her  eyes,  how 
particularly  unlike  a  rosebud  her  mouth,  how  excessively  un- 
classical  her  nose,  how  idiotically  low  her  forehead,  how  yel« 
low,  and  sallow,  and  ugly  her  complexion  !  No,  her  skin — 
Dot  has  a  complexion.  Vera  a  skin.  What  a  black,  kinky, 
untidy  brush,  her  hair.  Yes  !  she  is  one  of  the  tribe  of  Ugly 
Ducklings,  and  never,  never,  will  she  transmogrify  into  a 
swan.  Ah  I  no ;  sallow  skin,  thin  cheeks,  crane  neck,  tar 
black  hair,  cwl  eyes — that  is  to  be  ihe  melancholy  record  to 
the  bitter  end  !  With  a  great  sigh  she  turns  away  from  the 
mirror.  Hitherto  her  looks  have  troubled  her  very  little ; 
she  has  accepted  the  fact  that  she  is  a  colored  person,  and 
not  a  good-looking  colored  person  either,  as  one  of  the  great 
^controvertible  facts  of  life,  but  of  late  this  painful  truth  has 
been  brought  home  to  her,  in  an  altogether  new  and  depress- 
ing light  If  she  were  only  the  least  little  bit  pretty  1  If  she 
only  had  the  least  little  flesh  on  her  bones  i  Vera  is  sadly 
conscious  that  she  has  an  abnormal  tendency  to  bones.  If 
she  only  had  red  cheeks,  a  Grecian  nose,  anything,  anything. 
But  she  has  not  an  atom  of  prettiness  about  her.  She  is 
tank,  she  is  bony,  she  outgrows  her  clothes,  she  is  dark  and 
colorless,  she  always  will  be,  and — and  what  a  homely  I'ttle 
mortal  Capfrxin  Dick  must  think  her. 

"  I  think  I  look  like  Daddy,"  muses  Vera,  gazing  mournfully 
tt  what  she  sees  in  the  glass.  **  I  really  think  I  have  a 
family  resemblance  to  Daddy.  Perhaps  that  is  why  Captain 
Dick  takes  pity  on  me,  and  makes  much  of  me.  He  doei 
wie  saTne  with  Daddy.     Daddy  s  wrists  and  arklesf  vrotmde 


- 


'f      ;. 


:1'    'i 


I 


I 


I    ! 


m 


r:  ■    ''< 


io6 


SMADDMCr  UGRT, 


nnpleasantly  from  his  clothes — so  da  mine.  Daddy  xti  i 
complexion  like  a  tallow  candle — so  have  I.  Daddy  roni 
frightfully  to  joints  and  knuckles — so  do  I.  Yes,  \  am 
enough  like  Daddy  to  be  a  long-lost  sister." 

She  turns  away  disgusted,  goes  to  the  window,  leans  her 
folded  arms  on  the  sill,  and  gazes  disconsolately  out.  And 
yet  that  Creole  face,  framed  in  green  leaves,  a  dark-red  ribbon 
in  the  "  tar  mop,"  would  hardly  be  pronounced  an  ugly  one 
by  most  observers.  Those  two  velvet,  black,  soft,  deep, 
lustrous  eyes  would  redeem  any  countenance,  and  despite 
the  sallowness,  and  the  thinness  of  a  rapidly  growing  girl, 
there  are  the  serene  lines  of  beauty  of  no  common  order. 
In  spite  of  her  own  opinion,  she  is  exactly  the  sort  of  Ugly 
Duckling  that  is  certain  to  grow  into  a  handsome  swan- 
How  hot  it  is  1  That  is  the  only  idea  she  has  been  con- 
scious of  all  day.  It  has  been  a  blank  day,  blank  from  its 
very  beginning.  For  some  reason  Captain  Dick  was  not  at 
the  place  of  tryst,  thi^  morning,  and  Vera  and  the  Nixie  were 
left  at  their  moorings  lamenting.  The  house  has  been  dull 
as  death,  the  people  gloomy,  the  day  hot.  She  always  cornea 
back  to  that ;  her  mind  goes  round  in  a  circle,  and  always 
returns  to  its  starting-point — the  heat. 

"  Perhaps  I  am  falling  into  my  second  childhood,"  thinks 
Vera,  despondently;  ''I  have  heard  of  such  things.  If  the 
weather  makes  dogs  go  mad,  why  shouldn't  it  make  people 
idiotic  ?  And  ch  1  how  hot  and  hateful  the  whole  worid  wil) 
be  after  Thursday  afternoon." 

She  sighs  impatiently,  and  stares  with  gloomy  eyes  over 
the  prospect.  How  lovely  she  thought  :t  three  weeks  ago ; 
what  a  blank,  hollow,  unsatisfactory  sort  of  a  thing  it  is  to- 
day 1  What  is  the  use  of  a  place  being  lovely,  if  people  will 
not  stay  in  it  ?  Why  was  Central  America  ever  discovered  ? 
It  was  some  of  Christopher  Columbus'  work,  she  supposes 
— these  navigators  and  discoverers  are  certainly  eery  offi 
rious  aad  much  overrated  people.     Oh  .  dear  how  hot  it  is 


SHADDECK  UGMT, 


109 


and  those  black  doudi  up  there ;  of  cotitse  it  '%  going  Co 
lighten  and  thunder,  nothing  will  do  it  bat  that. 

Vera  is  mortally  afraid  of  lightning  and  thunder,  &ne  alwaqri 
takes  refuge  in  the  cellar  if  there  is  one  available,  her  eyes 
hermetically  sealed,  her  ears  corked  with  her  index  Angers. 
As  if  she  were  not  unhappy  enough  without  having  to  spend 
the  evening  in  a  cellar  !  Oh !  how  hot — then  she  stops.  The 
httle  basket  phaeton,  with  its  blue  umbrella  top,  comes  brisk 
ly  up  the  drive,  with  Dora  inside.  Dora  has  been  to  town  on 
an  errand  for  Mr.  Charlton,  and  is  now  retmning.  How 
pretty  she  looks.  Vera  thinks,  in  that  white  chip  hat,  and 
ostrich  tips,  and  blush  roses,  a  flimsy  white  vail  strapped 
across  her  delicate  morsel  of  a  nose,  her  rose-lined  parasol 
casting  a  warm  tint  over  her  too  pale  face.  Ah  1  where  are 
Captain  Dick's  senses,  that  he  has  no  relish  for  golden  hair, 
pearly  skin,  azure  eyes,  and  a  fairy  form.  Then  Dora  looks 
up,  and  sees  her. 

"Oh,  Vera  !  "  she  exclaims.  There  is  unusual  animation 
in  Dora's  look  and  tone,  "  have  you  heard  ?  " 

"  I  have  heard  nothing,"  says  Vera,  in  a  melancholy  voice, 
"  seen  nothing,  done  nothing,  and  never  expect  to  again. 
What  is  it  ?  " 

"  Captain  Ffrench " 

Vera  starts  up,  all  listlessness,  all  mild  melancholy  gone, 
at  that  magical  name. 

**  Captain  Ffrench  has  met  with  an  accident — I  heard  it 
over  at  St.  Ann's,  and  is  very  badly  hurt." 

There  is  a  cr)' ;  a  sharp,  sudden  cry,  as  if  she  had  been 
Btruck.  Then  Vera  is  motionless,  but  in  that  instant  every 
trace  of  life  anu  color  has  faded  from  her  face. 

"He  was  out  drivi.ig,"  pursues  Dori,  airily,  **with  that 
man,  Di .  Engle'iart,  you  know,  and  it  seems  the  horses  took 
fright  at  a  passmg  train,  and  started  off  at  a  gallo)].  The 
caniage  was  overturned,  in  spite  of  all  Captain  Ffrench'i 
efforts,  and  they  were   both  thrown  out.     Dr.    Englehart 


«. 


li      i   .n 


i 


'  '1 


.h 


I  -I 


u 


I   9 


:  i*i' 


1 10 


SBADDBCX  LIGHT, 


eicaped  scot-free,  but  the  poor  overgrown  Dick  has  brokea 
himself  somewhere,  his  arm,  or  his  shoulder,  or  his  neck— 1 
really  am  not  sure  which." 

There  is  no  reply.  Vera  kneels  as  she  was,  the  same,  yet 
different.  Rigid  now,  her  hands  locked,  her  face  blanched, 
her  eyes  all  blind  and  black  with  great  swift  horror.  Sha 
does  not  try  to  speak,  she  just  kneels  there,  and  starei 
blankly  down  at  the  speaker. 

•*  Vera  I  Why,  good  Heaven  1  You  little  idiot  1  I  be 
lieve  you  are  going  to  faint  1  " 

She  darts  into  the  house,  up  the  stairs,  flies  swiftly  into 
Vera's  room,  and  seizing  her  by  the  shoulders,  shakes  hei 
with  no  gentle  hand. 

"  You  little  fool  I  if  you  faint  I  will  never  forgive  you.  1 
tell  you  he  is  not  dead — more's  the  pity — such  great  hulking 
fellows  as  that,  in  everybod/s  way,  don't  die  so  easily.  He 
has  put  his  shoulder  out,  that  is  all.  Now  come  back  to  life, 
or  I  will  shake  all  there  is  left  out  of  you  1 " 

She  is  quite  white  with  anger  and  alarm.  Vera  lifts  hei 
eyes,  into  which  the  old  look  slowly  returns. 

*'  I  thought  he  was  killed,"  she  says,  in  a  whisper. 

"  Oh  I  you  thought,  you  thought  I  "  retorts  Dora,  crossly, 
<*  a  nice  fright  you  have  given  me  for  nothing.  My  heart  it 
beating  like  a  trip-hammer.  It  serves  me  right  for  telling 
you  anything  about  it.  I  might  have  known  what  a  perfect 
simpleton  you  are." 

"  Oh  I  Dot,  don't     Where  it  he,  please  ?  " 

"  Where  he  ought  to  be— out  of  everybody's  way,  in  nig 
hut  in  the  ocean." 

"Alone?" 

"  He  has  that  other  lunatic  with  him — his  protkgky  Dadd> 
Long  Legs." 

**  Dot,  teh  me,  is  he  badly  hurt  ?  '' 

•*  How  do  I  know  ?  What  do  I  2are  ?  I  only  hope  » 
won't  pi  event  kis  going  off  on  Thursdrxy.     Oh  1  you  ma> 


k:x. 


SMADDECK  UGHT. 


Ill 


look  at  me  as  you  please ;  I  detest  your  Captain  Dick.  Now 
rm  going  to  tell  Mr.  Charlton." 

She  leaves  the  room.  For  a  little  Vera  lingers,  a  weight 
like  lead  on  her  heart  Captain  Dick  hurt,  badly  hurt, 
iuffering  pain,  alone  there  in  Shaddeck  Light.  What  if  it 
Vk  worse  than  Dora  knows,  what  if  he  dies  I  At  that 
thought  she  starts  to  her  feet  and  puts  out  both  arms  as  if 
to  ward  off  some  direful  blow. 

'*  Oh,  no,  no  I "  she  cries,  *<  not  that  I  Oh  I  what  shall  I 
do?    WhatshaUIdo?" 

She  stands  twisting  her  fingers,  bewildered  by  pain  and 
terror.  The  heat,  the  coming  thunder-storm,  his  departure, 
•11  are  forgotten,  swallowed  up  in  this  new  dread  disaster. 

What  shall  she  do  ?  Go  down  when  the  bell  rings  and  eat 
her  dinner  ?  No,  that  is  impossible.  Alone  there  with  only 
Daddy  I  Oh,  if  he  were  but  at  home,  if  she  could  only  do 
something— only  tell  him  she  was  sorry.  Captain  Dick 
helpless  and  suffering.  How  strange  a  thought,  how  impos- 
sible to  take  it  in.  He  so  strong,  so  manly,  »q  full  of  life 
and  vigor ;  it  seems  as  if  pain,  or  weakness,  or  helplessness 
could  never  come  near  him. 

What  shall  she  do  ?  She  takes  up  her  hat  mechanically, 
and  goes  out  of  the  house.  The  closeness  of  the  air  seems 
CO  stifle  her ;  the  lurid  sky  is  shutting  down  over  the  silent 
world,  as  the  dungeon  roof  shut  down  upon  the  fated  pris- 
oner ii.  the  "  Iron  Shroud.*  If  she  could  but  do  something 
^-anything  !  To  think  of  his  being  there  alone,  with  no  one 
to  do  anythmg  for  him  but  that  stupid  Daddy.  Th'^  thought 
gives  her  a  pang  of  absolute  physical  pain. 

She  is  out  on  the  high  road,  now.  \11  the  world  has  come 
to  a  s*^and  still,  the  leaves  on  tlie  trees,  the  flowers  at  her 
feet,  the  birds  in  the  branches,  the  sea  afar  off.  Is  nature 
waiting  breathlessly  for  Jie  first  crash  of  the  storm,  or  has  it 
^one  into  mourning,  like  Vera's  heart  ?  Dark  clouds  art 
•  apidly  gathering,  but  she  never   heeds  them — she   who  fto 


. « 


I. 


illl! 


iM 


!i  I 


I  ;i 


I 


I  il 


113 


SHADDMCr  UQMT, 


fears  storms — she  goes  on  and  on,  faster,  unheeJKng  ttM 
heat,  driven  by  ^  some  spirit  in  her  feet,"  without  will  of  hef 
own,  and  here  at  last,  breathless,  flushed,  panting,  she  standi 
on  the  shore,  and  looks  across  the  mile  or  so  of  water,  at 
Shaddeck  Light 

The  tide  is  ebbing.  In  half  an  hour — in  less — it  will  be 
possible  to  walk  over,  but  Dr.  Englehart  is  there,  and  evea 
in  her  great  trouble,  she  is  shy  of  facing  a  strange  man.  It 
is  a  comfort,  a  poor  one,  but  a  comfort,  to  stand  here  witk 
longing  wistful  eyes  fixed  on  that  smallest  of  human  habitju 
tions.  Overhead  the  clouds  are  still  blackening,  the  sea 
moans  dully,  now  and  then,  as  if  sullenly  conscious  of  what 
is  in  store  for  it.  And  still  Vera  stands.  She  will  be 
drenched  to  the  skin,  she  will  be  blinded  by  the  lightning, 
she  will  be  deafened  by  the  thunder,  she  will  be  frightened 
out  of  her  few  remaining  senses,  if  she  lingers  half  an  hour 
longer.  And  yet  it  is  hard  to  turn  and  go.  Her  anxiety, 
her  sympathy  are  so  great  that  in  some  mesmeric  way  they 
ought  to  reach  him  from  here.  Ah  !  here  is  Daddy  !  lon^p* 
limbed,  blessed  Daddy  1     At  last  she  will  hear  of  our  hero. 

Daddy  comes  shambling  over  the  rocks,  looking  much  at 
usual.  He  is  attached  to  his  master,  with  a  dull,  doggish 
sort  of  attachment,  but  he  is  also  of  a  phlegmatic  turn,  and 
this  upsetting  of  all  things  works  no  apparent  outward 
change.  If  Vera's  eyes  were  twice  as  piercing,  they  could 
read  nothing  in  that  blank  page — his  face. 

*^  How  is  he?"  she  cries,  springing  forward.  "Oh, 
Daddy,  how  is  Captain  Ffrench  ?  " 

Daddy  eyes  her  stolidly,  and  does  not  quicken  his  custom* 
try  drawl. 

«  Waal,  I  guess  thar  ain't  no  change  to  speak  on.  He'i 
kinder  pooty  much  the  same.  Air  you  a  goin'  over?  Dew; 
'twill  perk  him  up  quite  lome." 

**  Daddy,"  Vera  demands  with  solemnity,  "  Dade  y,  /  tab 
you — ^will  he,  or  will  he  not  die  ?  " 


amADDMCK  uear. 


111 


Oh, 


om* 


aflk 


That  put  npon  oath,  m  it  were,  Daddy  consideii  witb 
profound  feriousness. 

"  Waal,  I  reckon  not,"  ii  hit  conclution.  '<  I'm  a  ^aln* 
for  tome  doctor's  ttuff  over  to  the  town,  and  kent  ttay." 

•♦  Is  Dr.  Englehart  with  him,  Daddy  ?  " 

Daddy  shakes  his  head,  and  shuffles  off,  and  again  Vera  ii 
alone.  Shall  the  go  ?  He  is  there  and  suffering ;  she  can 
return  before  the  tide  rises.  Yes,  she  will  go.  She  knowi 
her  way  over  those  slippery,  sea-weedy  rocks,  she  has  crossed 
the  bar  many  a  time,  but  never  so  quickly,  so  fleetly  as  now. 
In  a  few  minutes  ^e  is  in  front  of  the  cottage,  the  handle  cl 
the  door  in  her  hand.  She  turns  it  gently,  and  enters.  The 
darknett  of  the  nearing  ttorm  is  in  the  room  ;  its  barenesi^ 
its  loneliness  ttriket  the  girl  with  a  sense  of  pain  altogethei 
new.     What  a  desperate  place  tc  be  ill  in — ill  and  alone. 

Captain  Ffrench  is  asleep.  He  lies  on  the  lounge,  hiii 
head  pillowed  on  his  right  arm,  his  left  bandaged  and  help- 
less. It  i&  his  arm  then  that  is  broken.  How  pale  he  is ; 
how  deeply  he  sleeps.  Vera  shuts  the  door,  tiptoes  ovei 
anxiously  and  stands  gazing  at  him.  He  does  not  look  as 
though  he  were  going  to  die,  certainly — nobody  dies  of  a 
broken  arm,  or  a  shoulder  put  out.  And  it  may  detain  him ; 
a  person  cannot  go  to  Central  America  winged  in  this  way. 
A  great  throb  of  hope  stirs  within  her ;  if  the  accident  keepi 
him  will  it  not  be  a  thing  to  rejoice  at  after  all  1 

Her  steady  gaze  disturbs  him ;  he  stirs  impatiently,  and 
mutters  to  himself.  Vera  leans  down,  smiling,  to  hear  what 
he  is  saying.  As  she  does  so,  he  opens  his  eyes,  staret, 
ihuts  them,  reopens  them,  and  stares  again. 

"  By  Jove  1 "  he  says,  in  amaze. 

"  Yes,  it  is  me,"  says  Vera,  joyously,  discarding  grammai 
m  her  gladness,  **  I  have  just  come.  Oh  1  Captain  Dick, 
how  glad  1  am,  how  glad  I  am  I  " 

**  Glad  !  "  exclaims  Captain  Dick,  aghast. 

'*  Y^et,  glad  that  it  is  only  your  arm      T  thought  it  was  ii 


i 


"4 


sMAPVMcr  trowr. 


m 


!    i!' 


iit 


I 


II    i'l 


I;' 


i  iffl 


I 


j  (SBII!! 

\  I 

•  f 

I  i' 

I 


Hi 


i  !n 


much  woite.    You  don't  know  how  frightened  I 

Vera  stops  with   one  impassionate  little  gesture.      Mert 

words  will  tell  so  little  of  all  that  is  in  the  heart 

"  You  dear  little  soul !  "  says  Captain  Dick,  sitting  up  and 
holding  out  his  hand.  "  And  you  came  here  the  moment 
fou  heard  of  it,  I'll  be  bound." 

"Yes,"  replied  Vera,  "1  did  not  knew — Dot  did  not  know 
•—Daddy  did  not  seem  to  know  what  it  was.  And  it  seemed 
■o  dreadful  for  you  to  be  alone  and  in  pain  here.  If  it  your 
arm,  or  your  shoulder,  and  oh,  does  it  hurt  you  very 
much?" 

He  does  not  answer  for  a  moment  He  smiles,  and  holds 
her  hands,  and  sits  looking  at  her  with  a  look  Vera  does  not 
understand. 

"  You  were  frightened  and  sorry,  and  you  ran  here  at  once. 
Little  Vera  I     Little  Vera  1  what  a  trump  you  are  !  ** 

"  And  it  is  not  very,  very  bad  ! "  persists  Vera,  sticking  to 
business,  and  ignoring  compliments. 

**  Not  now ;  it  hurt  like  the  deuce  at  first,  although  the 
shoulder  is  only  strained,  not  dislocated.  Those  horsei 
pulled  like  a  pair  of  devils.  But  it  is  all  right  now,  or  will 
be  in  a  day  or  two,  and  it  would  be  worth  while  having  a 
whole  arm  amputated  for  such  a  proof  of  fidelity  as  this. 
Find  a  chair  and  sit  down.  Who  told  you  about  it  in  tka 
first  place  ?  " 

*'  Dot.     She  was  in  town,  and  heard  there.*' 

"  Does  the  governor  know  ?  " 

"  Dot  will  tell  him." 

"  How  did  yo\x  come  ?     Bu^  you  walked,  of  course" 

*^  Of  course.  The  tide  is  out,  and  I  must  not  stay  or  it 
will  be  in." 

"  Oh,  there  is  no  hurry  ;  it  won't  be  in  for  hours.  I  was 
confoundedly  lonely  until  I  fell  asleep.  Englehart  has  gon« 
back  to  New  York ;  had  to  go — unexpected  telegram — so 
rffur  Y'iit,  a  god-send  at  ary  time,  is  doubly  a  god-s^nd  at 


AN  BrMtttNO  AT  SUADDECK  UGHT, 


11$ 


preient  Take  off  your  hat — ^yes,  I  insist— Daddy  will  be 
back,  presently,  and  we  will  have  a  sociable  supper  together, 
The  tide  ?  Never  minA  the  tide  ;  I  will  send  him  for  the 
Nixie,  and  he  can  row  you  ashore." 

Vera  laughs  and  obeys.    She  takes  a  chair,  throws  her  hat 
on  another,  and  the  simple  action  is  the  turning-point  of 
life. 


CHAPTER  XII. 


AN  IVININO  AT  SHADDECK   LIGHT. 


or  it 

I  wai 

gon« 
-so 
fnd  at 


jUT  why  did  you  come  here  ?  "  inquires  Vera,  "  snch 
a  lonesome,  lonesome  place  to  be  sick  in,  Captain 
Dick." 

"  ^am  not  sick,"  returns  Captain  Dick,  *<  and  don't  intend 
to  be,  little  Vera." 

'*  Why  did  you  not  go  to  Charlton  ?"  persists  Vera,  ''it  ia 
dreadfully  out  of  the  way  here,  with  nobody  but  Daddy  too, 
while  over  there  we  are  so  many,  with  nothing  at  all  to  do. 
We  could  read  to  you,  and  sing  to  you,  and  nake  you  nice 
things " 

"  Don't,"  says  Captain  Ffrench,  "  don't  Vera,  I  beg.  I 
am  but  mortal ;  don't  madden  me  by  recalling  all  1  .bAva 
lost  Don't  make  mo  feel  any  more  like  the  peri  outside  xA 
Paradise  than  you  can  help.  You  are  coming  to  see  me 
every  day  while  I  am  here ;  yes,  and  you  will  read  to  me.  and 
talk  to  me,  and  sing  for  me,  and  for  the  rest — ^w^U,  I  must 
bear  it     You  know,  I  cannot  go  back  tc  Charlton." 

"Why  not?" 

"Ah  I  well,  never  mind  why,"  answers  Dick  with  a  veiy 
sincere  sigh ;  "  I  and  the  dear  old  governor  have  haJ  a  mi» 


\  \ 


Ii6 


AN  EVENING  AT  SHADDECK  UGNT, 


fi  '[t 


onderstanding,  and — and,  in  thort,  I  am  not  to  go  back.    SfCiB 
I  think  I  shall  venture  one?,  to  bid  you  all  good-bj." 

<«  You  will  really  go  then,  in  spite  of  all  this  ?"  tonching 
the  wounded  arm,  her  heart  sinking  suddenly. 

'*  J  n  spite  of  all  th  .s.  It  would  take  a  good  deal  more 
than  a  crippled  arn^  to  keep  me  from  Honduras.  I  shall 
have  time  and  to  spare,  to  recover,  on  the  way.  I  shall  lie 
on  the  deck,  Vera,  and  smoke,  and  think  of  you,  and  wonder 
what  you  are  about  in  the  sunny  September  days." 

*•  Ah  I  "  says  Vera,  •*  I  can  tell  you  what  I  will  be  about, 
rery  easily.  I  shall  be  back  in  New  York,  in  the  dull  old 
schoolroom,  teaching  piano  scales,  and  words  of  two  sylla 
bles  all  day  long.  Mrs.  Trafton — *  my  missis/  you  know- 
brings  Floss  and  Lex  home  early  in  the  month,  and,  of  course 
I  must  be  there." 

She  pushes  all  the  soft  dark  rings  of  hair  from  her  forehead, 
with  a  restless  sigh.  How  hopeless  it  all  looks,  that  dreary 
•chool-room,  up  three  pair,  after  the  brightness  and  freedom 
of  Charlton  and  Captain  Dick.  How  monotonous  the  rou- 
tine of  Second  Readers,  and  "  one,  two,  three,  four,"  after 
the  sails,  the  drives,  the  woodland  walks ;  how  deadly  dull 
the  tii«;8ome  gabble  of  the  children,  after  the  brilliant  conver* 
sationAi  powers  of 

*^  Oh  t  "  she  cries  out,  in  a  voice  full  of  impatient  pain, 
"  how  horrid  it  all  is  ;  the  city,  and  the  noise,  and  the  ugli> 
Dess,  and  the  dreary  old  round  of  lessons  over  and  over,  for- 
ever and  ever." 

He  looks  at  her  in  pity.  She  is  such  a  child ;  it  is  like 
caging  a  poor  little  forlorn  starling,  this  cooping  her  up  with 
school-books  and  black-boardi. 

"  What  a  shame  1 "  he  says,  "  I  wish  I  could  take  yoo 
with  me  to  Central  America.  You  would  like  that,  would 
you  not.  Vera  ?  "  Like  it  ?  Her  eyes  flash  with  quick  d^ 
light.  She  laughs,  then  sighs.  <*And  Floss  and  Lex,*  hi 
goes  on,  **  who  are  they  1     My  lady's  pair  of  pet  poodles  ?" 


A»  EVENING  AT  SBADDECX  UOBT, 


iiy 


for^ 


"  Poodles  t  "  indignantly ;  <<  they  are  Alexis  and  FlMiilU 
rraftoni  nine  and  eight  years  old,  and  two  of  the  nicest  little 
things.  I  suppose  it  is  wicked  of  me  to  be  discontented  • 
Mrs.  Trafton  is  ever  so  good  to  me,  and  the  children  love 
me ;  but  1  do  not  like  teaching ;  I  ought  to  be  at  school 
myself  I  know  nothing  at  all.  You  see  it  all  happened 
when  I  was  so  young — only  ten,  Captain  Dick,"  lifting  two 
pathetic  young  eyes. 

**  Yes,  dear,"  he  says,  tenderly,  "  tell  me  about  it  Yoa 
lost  your  father,  I  know." 

"  I  was  twelve  when  papa  died.  He  was  killed  in  the 
second  year  of  the  war.  Dot  was  over  twenty  then — she  ii 
only  my  half-sister,  you  know." 

"  By  the  by,"  says  the  captain,  struck  by  a  sudden  thought, 
**  what  is  your  name,  Vera  ?  Not  Lightwood,  1  know.  Curi- 
ous, that  in  all  this  time  I  have  never  heard  your  name." 

"  My  father  was  a  Cuban,"  Vera  answers,  "  his  name  was 
Martinez — Manual  Salvadoi  Martinez.  I  was  christened 
after  his  mother,  Veronica  Mary." 

"  Veronica  Mary.  Then  I  have  the  honor  of  addressing 
the  Dofia  Vironique  Maria  Martinez  ?  " 

Vera  nods. 

''  I  am  Vera  to  everybody,  and  all  who  know  Dot  call  m4 
Vera  Lightwood.  My  grandmother  Martinez  lives  in  Cuba 
yet,  and  they  say  is  very  rich.  She  was  angry  with  papa 
for  marrying  mamma,  and  never  would  speak  to  him,  or 
write  to  him  after.  When  he  died,  she  wrote  for  the  first 
time — such  a  cold,  proud  letter — offering  to  take  me. 
Mamma  had  lost  her  fortune  then,  it  was  invested  in  South 
em  bonds,  or  something,  and  our  house  was  burned  in  Sher- 
man's march.  Ah  !  it  was  a  dreadful,  dreadful  time.  I  was 
a  child,  but  I  remember  it  all  so  well.  It  killed  poor 
mamma.  And  to  think  that  you  were  one  of  those  Yarkee 
soldiers  I  used  to  fear  and  hate  so  much  I  " 

"  I  was  not  in  Sherman's  army,  and  so  Dtver  helped  tQ 


n 


if 


i. 


ii8 


AM  EVENING  4T  SHADDECK  UOMT. 


born  your  Home,  thank  Hearen  I  Yes,  it  was  a  stirrings  gl0 
rious .  terrible  time.  And  so  your  mother  would  not  let  yot 
go  to  Grandmamma  Martinez  and  the  £ver-Faithful  Isle  1  * 

**  No,  but  I  think  if  she  had  known  sne  was  to  die  so  mx>B| 
she  would.  We  were  left  so  poor,  so  desolate,  so  utterly 
alone." 

«* She  died  suddenly?" 

"In  one  moment,  Captain  Dick.  When  they  told  her 
papa  was  wounded,  she  went  to  him,  and  stayed  until  he 
died.  He  died  in  a  week — torn  all  to  pieces,"  Vera  says, 
in  a  whisper,  her  dark  eyes  dilating,  *^  by  a  shell.  Then  she 
came  home.  We  did  not  see  much  difference,  she  was  al- 
ways  pale  and  delicate,  like  Dot,  but  she  never  laughed  nor 
talked  as  she  used,  or  took  any  notice  of  me,  who  used  to 
be  her  pet ;  and  one  day  as  she  was  talking  to  Miss  Scudder, 
she  just  laid  her  hand  on  her  heart,  gave  one  gasp,  and  fell 
back  in  her  chair,  dead  1 " 

There  is  silence.  Outside  the  darkness  is  ever  deepen- 
ing,  around  them  the  sea  is  sullenly  washing,  fit  background 
for  Vera's  tragic  tale. 

"  It  was  heart-disease,"  she  goes  on,  afler  a  moment,  dur* 
ing  which  she  has  covered  her  face,  with  a  sob,  "  and  (Dot 
would  not  like  me  to  tell  this)  she  will  not  talk  of  it,  not 
think  of  it,  but  she  has  it  too.  It  is  hereditary  in  our 
mother's  family,  and  some  day  I  am  afraid " 

She  stops;  her  large  eyes  look  larger  and  blacker,  Ffrencb 
thinks^  than  he  has  ever  thought  them  before. 

"  I  would  die,  I  think,  if  anything  happened  to  Dot.  I 
have  nobody  but  her  m  the  world.  Captain  Dick,  you  know 
•o  much,  do  you  think — do  you  think  Dwt  will  ever  go  like 
that  ?  " 

'*  I  think  not,  I  hope  not,  I  sun  sure  not,"  he  answers,  <  my 
poor  Uttle  Vera  I " 

He  is  «>  sorry  for  her,  she  is  such  a  childish  little  sool  ti 
be  thrown  on  tlic  world,  to  fight  its  bitter  battles,  to  know  ci 


Aif  BWMMIHG  AT  MMADDMCK  UOHT, 


\\% 


my 


luch  griily  horror  I  at  thete.  He  has  never  had  a  ditcTi 
never  thought  whether  he  wished  for  one  before;  but  he 
wishes  now  that  this  little  girl  with  the  dark  appealing  e]re% 
and  winsome,  innocent  ways,  were  his  sister. 

'*  Then,"  goes  on  Vera,  "  we  were  all  alone,  and  homeleM, 
and  poor.  Only  for  Miss  Scudder,  an  old  maid  cousin  of 
mamma's,  who  kept  our  house,  I  don't  know  what  would  have 
become  of  us.  But  the  next  two  years  passed  somehow. 
The  war  was  at  an  end,  we  were  still  without  a  home,  and 
poor,  poor,  poor  1 " 

She  breaks  off.  A  great  flash  of  lightning  blazes  out,  fol 
lowed  by  a  dull  roaring  cannonade.  The  storm  is  upon  them 
in  its  might.     She  shrieks,  and  covers  her  eyes. 

**  Don't  be  afraid,"  Dick  says,  reassuringly,  *'  what  I  such 
a  little  heroine  frightened  by  a  thunder-storm  ?  Come,  tit 
with  your  back  to  the  window,  and  go  on.  You  do  not  know 
how  interested  I  am." 

The  crash  is  over  ;  it  is  so  dark  they  can  hardly  lee  each 
other's  faces.  Captain  Ffirench  takes  her  two  hands  in  one  of 
his,  and  holds  them  fast 

"  Now,"  he  says,  cheerily,  '<  not  all  the  powers  of  earth 
and  air,  not  all  the  king's  horses,  nor  all  the  king's  men, 
shall  harm  you.  What  next  ?  What  did  you  and  Dot  do 
then  ?  " 

"Before  the  war,"  says  Vera,  creeping  up  close  to  her 
protector,  "  we  had  had  a  governess.  When  it  first  broke 
out  papa  sent  her  home  North,  but  she  had  left  us  hei 
address,  and  Dot  wrote  to  her,  asking  her  to  help  us.  She 
wrote  back  at  once,  the  kindest  letter.  She  had  married, 
daring  tho»?  four  years,  a  very  rich  banker,  a  Mr.  Trafton, 
and  she  invited  us  to  her  house,  and  inclosed  money  to  pay 
our  way.     Now  was  that  not  kind  ?  " 

''Very  kind.  The  world  is  not  such  a  bad  sort  of  place 
after  all  as  the  cynics  try  to  m^ke  it  out.  Now,  novr.  noi' ) 
Rffvei  mind  the  lightning." 


mmmmm 


AH  MVEMmG  AT  SMADDMCK  UCMT. 


i!    i 


<'  But  it  is  so  aMrful.  Captain  Dick,  what  would  we  do  3 
H  struck  this  house  and  set  it  on  fire  ?  " 

<'It  wont  strike,'*  he  laughs,  *'I  am  a  non-conductor. 
Well,  you  went  to  Mrs.  Trafton's  ?  " 

"  We  went  to  Mrs.  Trafton's,  and  nobody  could  have  been 
kinder.  Mr.  Trafton  had  been  a  widower,  and  Lex  and 
Flossy  were  two  little  tots  no  bigger  than  that,  but  they  took 
the  greatest  fancy  to  me  at  once — you  can't  think !  " 

"  Can't  I  ?  It  has  been  exactly  my  own  case.  1  stood  on 
the  bank,  that  mornings  and  looked  down  on  the  dearest 
little  black-eyed  fairy  in  the  world,  and  fell  in  love  with  hef 
on  the  spot." 

"  Now  you  are  laughing  at  me.     If  you  are " 

"  I  am  perfectly  serious.  My  case  and  that  of  Lex  and 
Flossy  are  precisely  parallel." 

*^  Well,  whether  you  are  laughing  or  not  they  did^  and 
Mrs.  Trafton  proposed  that  I  should  stay  partly  as  playmate, 
partly  as  governess,  at  a  small  salary.  Such  a  ridiculous 
governess,  Captain  Diclr,  only  fourteen  I " 

"And  there  you  are  ever  since?" 

"  Ever  since,  and  likely  to  be,  until  the  children  are  old 
enough  for  a  governess  who  knows  something.  /  know 
lothing,  nothing,"  says  Vera,  with  a  melancholy  little  shake 
of  the  head. 

"  What  becomes  of  Dofia  Martinez,  then  ?  " 

"Ah,  what?  goodness  knows.  I  have  a  talent  for  cook- 
ing ;  I  might  go  out  as  kitchen-maid,  I  suppose  Mr£.  Traf- 
ton will  get  something  for  me ;  she  is  awfully  good.  But  I 
do  hate  teaching." 

'*  You  poor  little  soul !  "  Captain  Ffiench  is  aware  that 
he  has  several  times  already  used  this  form  of  consolation, 
•nd  that  it  would  be  well  to  vary  It,  but  it  seems  to  fit  the 
case  %&  well  as  anything  else. 

^  Aod  Dot  hates  millir  ery ;  I  mean  she  hates  being  a  la« 
figure,  and  trying  on,  ap'i  showing  things  to  vulgar  rich  peo 


1 1 


AN  EVENING  AT  SHADDECK  UGNT, 


131 


and 


old 


a  la« 


peo 


pie,  who  would  be  insolent  if  they  could,  only  Dot  nevet 
takes  airs  nor  insolence  from  anybody.  But  it  is  a  stupid 
life  all  round,  and  in  the  long  hot  summer  time,  and  the  dull 

winter  days But   there  I  what   is  the  use   of  talking 

about  it  Poor  we  are,  and  poor  we  will  be  till  the  emd  of 
the  chapter.  Sometimes  I  wish  Air.  Charlton  had  not  m.' 
vited  us  here.     It  makes  the  going  back  so  much  worse." 

''  I  wish  Mr.  Charlton  would  keep  you  for  good.  It  would 
be  a  capital  arrangement  on  both  sides.  If  things  were  as 
they  used  to  be  between  us,  I  would  ask  him.  Ah  \  by 
Jove  1  that  was  a  crash  1 " 

A  crash  indeed.  It  shakes  the  light-house,  the  rocks  un« 
der  it,  the  mighty  ocean  itself.  And  then  a  blaze  of  blue 
sulphurous  light  zig-zags  through  the  room,  and  Vera  screams 
and  buries  her  face  on  his  shoulder.  He  draws  her  close, 
and  does  his  best  to  soothe  her,  but  he  can  feel  her  quiver- 
ing with  fear. 

"  It  will  not  hurt  you,  you  are  perfectly  safe.  Vera  I 
why  you  poor  child,  how  your  heart  is  beating.  How  sorry 
I  am  you  came." 

That  rouses  her  a  little. 

"  I — I  am  not  sorry,"  she  gasps,  "  it  would  be  just  as  bad 
over  at  the  house.  Oh,  Captain  Dick,  I  am  always  fright- 
ened to  death  in  thunder-storms.  Do  you — do  you  tliink  it 
will  soon  be  over  ?  " 

"  It  will  be  over  in  fifteen  minutes,"  returns  Captain  Dick, 
in  the  positive  tone  of  one  who  always  has  his  informa 
tion  from  headquarters,  '*  and,  meantime,  neither  the  thun- 
der, nor  the  lightning,  nor  twice  the  hurly-burly  will  harm 
us.  Hark  !  there  is  the  rain.  It  is  only  a  summer  shower 
ti'ter  all.     Our  cyclone  will  be  over  in  a  moment  now." 

And  in  a  very  few  minutes  it  is  over.  There  is  a  torrent 
oi  rain,  a  few  more  vivid  flashes,  a  few  more  rumbling  peals, 
and  then  the  spirit  of  the  storm  draws  olf  his  forces,  growling 
foUenly  as  he  goes.     There  is  but  the  furious  pour  of  tht 


'a 
li        >■: 


mmmmteiMmm 


I 


lil 


If 


Pi 


i 


W 


it» 


AN  SVENINC  AT  SHADDECX  UGMT. 


rain,  and  as  Vera  does  not  fear  that,  she  lifts  her  diminished 
head,  and,  rather  ashamed  of  herself,  looks  in  a  somewhat 
crest-fallen  fashion  at  her  companion. 

<*  What  a  goose  yon  must  think  me,  Captain  Dick.  But 
I  can't  help  it.  I  have  always  been  like  this.  I  wonder,* 
suddenly,  **  what  keeps  Daddy  ?  " 

'<  The  storm,  I  suppose.  He  doesn't  like  a  wetting  any 
more  than  his  betters." 

*'  And  the  tide  is  turning  I  "  cries  the  girl  going  to  the 
window,  *'  it  must  be  nine  o'clock.  Captain  Dick,  the  tide 
is  turning." 

"  Let  it  turn.     What  is  the  tide  to  you  and  me  ?  '* 

"  But  how  am  I  to  get  off  ?  how  am  I  to  go  home  ?  * 

"  Daddy  will  fetch  you.  He  will  come  off  in  a  boat  prei- 
ently,  and  then,  after  supper,  can  row  you  ashore.  Come, 
don't  grow  anxious,  it  will  be  all  right" 

**Well — if  you  think  so — ^you  are  sure  Daddy  will 
come  ?  " 

"Quite  certain." 

"  Because  if  he  did  not  you  know  I  could  walk  it.  The 
bar  is  still  clear " 

"  And  the  rain  is  still  pouring  in  bucketfuls.  Yes,  it  it 
so  likely  I  will  let  you  walk.  I'll  tell  you  what  you  may  do, 
little  Vera  :  does  my  memory  serve  me,  or  ^d  I  dream  yijia 
owned  to  a  genius  for  cooking  ?  " 

"  I  own  to  it     It  is  my  one  talent" 

*'  And  yovL  are  not  afraid  of  blacking  your  hands  ?  " 

"  Not  a  bit.  Nature  has  made  them  so  black  that  art  nof 
toot  cannot  spoil  them." 

"  Very  well  then.  Yonder  is  the  kitchen.  In  the  kitch* 
sn  is  a  stove,  in  the  stove  is  a  fire,  left  by  forehanded 
Daddy.  On  sundry  shel  res  are  various  articles  of  tin  and 
crockery  appertaining  to  the  cuisine.  In  different  canisters 
are  coffee,  tea,  milk,  etc  Now,  suppose,  while  we  wait, 
f  9U  get  up  oar  supper.     I  am  consumedly  hungry.    And  if 


A  Ni€MT  AT  SOADDMCK  UCMT, 


»l 


pm  prove  to  have  the  culinary  skill  you  claim,  when  I  ro* 
turn  from  Central  America,  with  my  fortune  made,  I  may  euh- 
gage  you  as  my  cook." 

Vera  needs  no  second  bidding.  She  goes  to  the  kitchen 
in  high  glee.  The  invalid  proposes  accompanying  her,  and 
•uperintending,  but  this  she  will  not  hear  of.  A  true  artist 
permits  no  interference — an  artist  in  cooking  least  of  all^ 
He  is  to  remain  on  his  lounge  and  smoke,  if  he  likes,  and 
issue  no  orders,  and  prepare  to  be  enchanted  with  the  re- 
sult. 

The  lightning  has  quite  ceased  ;  the  rain  is  ceasing. 
Great  rifts  in  the  clouds  show  gleams  of  yellow  light.  It  if 
nine,  but  still  not  entirely  dark,  and  by  and  by  there  will  be 
a  moon.  Daddy  can  row  her  ashore  by  moonlight,  and  in 
spite  of  the  storm  this  will  be  an  evening  to  dream  of,  when 
Captain  Dick — ah  1  mournful  thought — is  far  away. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

A  NIOHT  AT  SHADDKCK   LIGHT. 

|H£  Dofia  V6ronique  Maria  Martinez  bustles  abont 
among  the  crockery  and  canisters  mentioned  by  the 
ma.«ter  of  the  house,  making  coffee,  frying  ham, 
cutting  bread  and  making  toast  Captain  Richard  Ffrench 
lies  zt  ease,  half  s^niling  as  he  watches  the  busy  little  figure 
flitting  about.  And  the  August  evening  wears,  and  the 
August  night  comes  trailing  darkly,  spangled  with  stars,  over 
the  world.  A  cool  wind  rises,  the  sea  washes  up,  in  steady 
deep  pulses,  the  minutes  fly,  and  Daddy  comes  not.  He 
pullf  out  his  watch  at  last.     **  Nine,''  he  says,  with  a  start 


iNiMiMUi 


t 


l!!:-i 


<  ill 


^11:!^ 


m  ''# 


lil 


l«4 


^  HMBT  At  aaUDDMCK  UOMT, 


<*  Daddy  should  be  here.  What  can  keep  the  fool  ?  What  a 
pretty  pickle  if  the  Dofia  should  have  to  stay  all  night — il 
Daddy  does  not  come  at  all.'* 

But  this  catastrophe  he  does  not  greatly  fear.  Daddy 
always  comes ;  he  is  badgered  by  the  gamms  of  St  AnL.'t 
whenever  he  shows  in  the  streets ;  he  will  not  faal  in  this 
crisis.  The  druggist  and  the  tempest  combined  have  detained 
him.  And  then  Vera  appears  in  the  door-way  freighted  with 
a  large  tray,  the  odors  from  which  are  as  nectar  and  ambro 
aia,  and  twice  as  substantial.  This  she  places  on  a  table, 
wheels  it  up  to  the  invalid's  couch,  lights  a  lamp,  and  sets  it 
in  the  middle.  She  arranges  her  edibles,  and  takes  her  seat 
to  preside,  issuing  her  orders  with  the  pretty  peremptorinesi 
of  an  amateur  matron. 

"  No,  you  are  not  to  stir.  Captain  Dick.  I  can  do  every 
thing  myself  and  prefer  it  Just  keep  still,  and  do  as  you 
are  told.  Here  is  your  coffee— does  it  not  smell  deli- 
ciously  ?  " 

"  The  perfume  of  Araby  the  Blest — and  the  taste — ^words 
fail.  Consider  yourself  engaged  from  this  moment  as  head* 
cook  of  my  futiue  establishment" 

"  Let  me  help  you  to  ham^  and  try  this  toast.  Is  youi 
Co£fee  sweet  enough  ?  How  funny  il  seems,  this  gipsy  suppex 
out  here  in  the  middle  of  the  sea,  doesn't  it?" 

"Ah  I  very  funny  I "  Then  mentally :  "  What  the  dickens 
keeps  Daddy  ?  ** 

"  If  Dot  only  could  see  us — or  Mrs.  Charlton.  Good  gra- 
cious I  Mrs.  Charlton  would  be  shocked  out  of  her  seven 
■enses." 

•*  Why?    We  are  doing  no  narm." 

"  That  makes  no  difference.  It  isn't  the  things  that  ar« 
most  harm  that  shock  people  most,"  says  Vera,  with  uncon- 
•dou":  knowledge  of  tlie  world.  "Another  -up  of  coffee  ?  1 
knew  you  would  Uke  it" 

''Never  tasted  its  like  at  the  Cafi  ie  Paris."     Half-pMi 


A  NIG&T  AT  UUJMXBCK  UGBT. 


»l 


aine — he  pulls  out  his  watch  surreptitiously.     **  Good  hear 
ens  1  will  that  half-witted  clown  never  come  i  '* 

**  By  the  way,"  he  says,  '*  and  apropos  of  nothing— Doi 
knows  where  you  are,  of  course  ?" 

**  Yes — no — I  don't  believe  she  does.  I  didn't  tell  her. 
I  didn't  know  I  was  coming.  She  told  me  about  your  acci< 
dent,  and  I  forgot  everything  but  that,  and  ran  ofif.  Have 
another  piece  of  toast  ?  Is  not  Daddy  very  long  about  coci* 
ing?" 

"  1  should  think  w,  *  replies  Capt  4in  Dick,  with  an  ill-re> 
pressed  groan.  He  is  growing  serieti«ly  uneasy.  More  than 
once  it  has  happened  to  Daddy  to  be  belated  and  kept  in  St 
Ann's  all  night— what  if  this  be  one  of  the  nights  I  The  tide 
.  s  making  too  rapidly  now  for  her  to  think  of  cro^  ng  to  the 
rnain  land,  and  if  Daddy  does  not  bring  a  boat 

"Any  more  ham?  No?  Well,  this  is  a  promiscuous 
picnic;  1  shall  never  forget  it  Now,  I  will  clean  off  the 
things,  and  then  there  will  be  nothing  to  do  but  sit  down  and 
wait  for  Daddy  and  the  boat." 

"Nothing  to  do!  Good  Heavens  I"  Captain  Ffrench 
says  to  himself  again,  in  direst  dismay. 

It  is  close  upon  ten  now,  and  still  only  the  wash  of  the  smrf 
on  the  rocks  breaks  the  dread  silence  of  night  and  ocean. 
The  rising  moon  streams  in  and  fills  the  little  room,  for  his 
cook-elect  has  taken  the  lamp  to  the  kitchen.  He  goes  to 
the  window  and  looks  out. 

"  Sister  Anne,  Sister  Anne,  do  you  see  anybody  coming  ? ' 
cries  Vera^  gayly.  Her  work  is  done,  and  waiting  is  begun. 
"  Water,  water,  everywhere,  but  no  Daddy  visibio.  Captaic 
Dick,  what  if  he  doesn't  come  at  all  ?  " 

"  By  Jove  1 "  he  says,  and  looks  at  her  so  blankly  that  the 
breaks  into  a  laugh. 

"  Would  it  not  be  awful  ?  And  Mrs.  Charlton's  face  when 
I  go  back  1  No— it  is  too  fearful  to  think  of! "  She  laughs 
tgain — Vera's  sweet,  joyous  laugh,  no  thought  of  the  red 


x^ 


if!! 


rtl'-' 


■'I 


M0 


d  mCMT  AT  SMAODECr  U€gT. 


Awkwardneff,  the  lerious  contrettmps^  breaking  on  her  mind 
*'  Captain  Dick,  you  should  have  let  ine  walk  home." 

*'  But  I  thought  Daddy  would  come — I  made  sure  Daddy 
would  come  1  **  he  murmurs,  helplessly.  He  goes  back  to 
his  couch,  and  pulls  his  long  mustache  in  dire  perplexity. 
<*  Confound  Daddy  1 — yea,  trebly  hang  and  confound  him  I 
What  can  keep  the  great  softy?     If  the  child  has  to  stay 

all  night ^"     He  looks  at  her  sitting  there  with  all  a  child*! 

unconsciousness  in  her  face.  "It  will  be  the  deuce  of  a 
scrape  I  And  what  will  they  say  at  Charlton  ?  What  wiL 
Eleanor  say  ? — and  her  awful  mother  ? — and  the  governor  ? 
and  Dora?" 

Vera  is  singing  solUy  to  herself.  The  start  are  shining 
down  on  the  sleeping  sea ;  the  moon  is  pouring  its  white, 
lonesome  light  over  everything;  nothing  but  the  world  ol 
waters  around  them — Adam  and  Eve  in  Eden  were  neref 
more  alone. 

**  Tht  Bight  has  a  thooauid  fi^m^ 

aingi  Vera,  her  head  thrown  back,  her  upraised  tyea  iuwd  «■ 
the  gUtteiing  sky — 

*'  The  day  bat  <nm^ 
Yet  the  light  of  the  bright  warU  «m 
With  the  dying  tun. 

**  The  mind  has  a  thounad  T/rn^ 

The  heart  but  one ; 
Yet  the  light  of  a  whole  Ufe  diet 

When  day  is  done." 

Half-past  t*n  1     With  the  moonlight  full  on  her  face,  ihe 
Ats  in  the  old  arm-chair,  the  sea- wind  lifting  her  short  curls, 
drinking  in  the  solemn  loveliness  of  the  night.     There  is  si 
lence.     He  lies  gnawing  his  mustache,  vexed,  puzzled,  pow 
crless  to  help  himself.     How  anxious  they  will  be  at  Charl 


A  tit  GUT  AT  SttADDECtC  UQtIT, 


laf 


ton.     How  unconcerned  she  seems ;  singing,  too,  by  Georgt 
He  is  half  inclined  to  resent  that  ignorance  of  innocence. 
But,  af^er  all,  what  cannot  be  cured  must  be  endured — crjpt 
killed  a  cat — it  is  really  no  fault  of  his ;  she  is  only  a  little 
girl,  and— eleven  t 

The  night  is  so  still ;  what  wind  there  is,  is  blowing 
towards  them,  and  the  clock  of  St.  Ann's  Town  Hall  has  a 
loud  bass  voice.  Eleven  1  Still  siience.  Vera's  song  has 
died  out,  Captain  Ffrench  has  given  up  the  forlorn  hope  at 
last. 

" '  He  Cometh  not,'  she  said,"  quotes  Vera,  in  tones  of 
subdued  tragedy. 

'*  I — I'm  afraid  not  I'm  awfully  sorry,  little  Vera. 
What  must  you  think  of  me  ?  It  is  all  my  fault — you  could 
have  walked.    I  never  imagined  it  would  end  like  this." 

The  intense  vexation  of  his  tone  is  not  to  be  concealed. 
She  looks  at  him  in  surprise.  Of  what  he  is  thinking— ol 
the  way  the  predicament  may  affect  her — she  never  dreams. 

"  But,  aft^r  all,  there  is  no  great  harm  done.  I  am  safe, 
and  it  is  better  for  me  to  be  here  than  that  you  should  be 
left  alone.  Dot  will  guess  where  I  am,  and  the  rest  will  not 
care.  I  suppose  the  tide  will  go  out  again  early  in  the  mom- 
bg,  and  then  I  can  walk  ashore." 

There  is  no  more  to  be  said.  He  accepts  t!ie  situation 
as  it  is  his  custom  to  accept  the  inevitable,  ar;a  throws  off  ail 
care  for  the  morrow.  To-night  his  duty  is  to  make  his 
guest  as  comfortable  as  may  be,  to-morrow  must  take  can 
of  Itself.  Her  sister  will  understand,  and  as  Vera  herself 
•ays,  it  is  no  one  else's  business.  No  one  need  ever  know 
— she  can  cross  about  seven  in  the  morning,  and  be  home  in 
time  for  breakfast  So  Captain  Dick  cheers  up,  throws  oi 
worry,  and  becomes  hospitably  solicitous  about  her  night's 
rest. 

"You  cannot  sit  there  until  morning,  you  kn^w,"he  ^yn 
^  Daddy  has  a  roost  under  the  eaves.     I  will  mount,  and 


i 


uS 


A  NIGHT  AT  SHADDECr  UCMFt, 


fou  mast  try  and  make  yourself  as  comfortable  ai  may  bi 
down  here.  You  need  fear  no  burglars,  and  sea-piratei 
don*t  fish  in  Shaddeck  Bay.  After  all,  it  will  not  be  hjUf  a 
bad  adventure  to  look  back  on,  in  the  monotony  of  the 
Trafton  school -room.  Don't  get  nen'ous ;  don't  let  the 
lound  of  the  sea  frighten  you.  Remember  there  irill  be  a 
fweet  little  cherub  up  aloft  ready  to  fly  down  at  the  fainteet 
calL  And  now,  as  it  is  high  time  you  were  sound,  I  will  aa> 
cend.     Good-night  and  pleasant  dreams,  little  Vera." 

Vera  protests — he  will  hurt  his  shoulder.  She  ii  very 
comfortable,  thank  you,  in  this  chair.  She  will  go  np  under 
the  Mansard  instead.  In  vain — on  this  point  he  is  inflexi- 
ble, and  goes  while  she  is  politely  persisting.  No  need  of 
shooting  bolts  or  burglars,  of  locking  doors,  or  barring  case- 
ments at  Shaddeck  Light  He  is  gone,  and  Vera  and  the 
moonlight  are  alone. 

Alone  1  How  lonely  it  is — she  has  never  realized  fully 
what  the  word  meant  before.  How  awe-inspiring  in  its  sol- 
emn, sighing  mystery,  that  sleeping  sea,  how  desolate  the 
eternal  wash  of  the  slow  breaking  surf,  how  mournful  the 
echo  of  the  night  wind  1  Now  and  then  there  is  the  disso- 
nant scream  of  a  gull — nothing  else  of  life  to  break  upon  the 
voices  of  the  night.  Moonlight  and  water,  water  and  moon« 
light — their  dot  of  an  island,  their  speck  of  a  house  1  St. 
Ann's,  a  long,  dark  line  of  coast,  with  here  and  there  a  glim- 
mering light,  and  she  alone  in  all  the  world,  as  it  seems, 
alone  as  Peter  Wilkins  on  his  desert  island,  before  the  ad- 
vent of  his  wonderful  flying  wife.  But  there  is  that  **  sweet 
little  cherub  "  up  aloft — the  thought  of  him  brings  comfort 
and  companionship.  How  very  awful  to  be  here  quite 
ilone,  no  Captain  Dick  upstairs.  She  can  hear  him  mov- 
ing about,  and  there  is  protection  and  cheeriness  in  every 
creak  of  his  boots.  She  feels  no  inclination  for  sleep,  she  ii 
abnormally  wide-awake — that  mighty  sweep  of  sea  af.d  sky, 
that  golden,  crystal  globe  up  there,  all  these  yellow  clusters 


A  NlGttT  AT  SMADDMCX  UGMT, 


129 


of  itarsi  absorb  her.  It  if  luch  a  night  ai  nhe  will  nerei 
spend  again,  a  night  to  be  raaiked  by  a  red  i tone  in  her  life. 
She  hopes  Dot  is  not  uneasy,  but  Dot  will  guess  how  it  is 
So  she  sits,  and  softly  sings  to  herself,  and  the  low,  crooning 
lullaby  steals  up  to  the  man  overhead,  and  touches  all  th&l 
is  chivalrous  and  tender  in  his  heart. 

**  Dear  little  soul  1  "  he  thinks,  **  dear  little,  innocent, 
warm-hearted  Vera  1  How  much  younger  she  is  than  most 
girls  of  her  age — how  true  and  clear  she  sings  I  What  a 
noble,  loving,  generous  woman  she  will  make  in  five  or  six 
years.  And  how  little  is  the  fear  of  Mrs.  Gmndy  before  her 
eyes )  What  will  Eleanor — what  will  Mrs.  Charlton  think 
and  say  of  this  escapade  ?  " 

Miss  Charlton's  refusal  has  not  altogether,  it  will  be  per- 
ceived, broken  the  heart  of  Captain  Ffrench.  He  feels 
considerably  better,  indeed,  than  before  the  ordeal — it  is  not 
certainty,  but  suspense  that  kills — Eleanor,  conjugal  bliss — 
Charlton  vs.  Englehart  and  the  rest  of  these  ton  camarades — 
new  discoveries,  botanical  and  mineral,  in  Honduras — the 
die  is  cast  between — his  to  be  the  latter,  and  in  his  secret 
heart  he  rejoices. 

Twelve  by  the  clock  of  St.  Ann's.  Vera  is  still  by  the 
nrindow,  but  her  croon  has  ceased,  she  is  growing  sleepy, 
and  a  trifle  chilly.  After  all,  a  person  might  as  well  have  a 
sleep — moonlight  and  sea  effects  will  keep.  So,  yawning 
very  much,  she  takes  her  place  on  the  lounge,  *nd  in  five 
minutes  is  fast  as  a  church. 

Morning  I  She  opens  her  eyes,  as  the  first  eastern  beam 
shoots  pink  and  golden  into  the  little  room.  The  window 
stands  wide  jpen  and  by  it,  smoking  placidly,  sits  Captaiu 
Dick. 

** Is  it  tomorrow ?  "  she  asks,  rising  on  her  elbow,  " it 
does  not  seem  half  an  hour  since  I  lay  down.  Has  Daddy 
come  ?  " 

<*  Good-morning,  Dofia  Martinez.      No,    Daddy  is  stitt 


mm 


Mil 


1  ( 


■<'    i 


»K 


A  HtQHT  AT  SHADDMCK  UGHT, 


among  the  missing.  How  late  did  you  lit  up  lafl  sight  f 
Far  into  my  beauty  sleep,  I  heard  a  still  small  voice  chant 
ing,  'We  won't  go  home  till  morning/  " 

"  You  heard  nothing  of  the  sort.  How  is  the  dde  ^  oo  tlit 
ebb  or  flow  ?    Can  I  walk  ashore  ?  " 

*<  Here  is  some  one  t  "  cries  Captain  Ffrench.  On  tlM 
instant  a  boat  sweeps  round  the  curve  of  the  island  and  mnf 
sharply  up  on  the  sand. 

"  Daddy  at  last,"  says  ^^era,  with  a  3rawn.  *'  I  shall  not 
have  to  walk  after  all." 

'*  That  is  not  Daddy's  step/'  Daddy's  master  says,  quickly. 
"  There  is  more  than  one." 

The  footsteps  draw  nearer,  the  door  opens,  and  four  per- 
sons enter  the  room.  Dora  Lightwood,  pale  and  breathless, 
Mrs.  Charlton,  austere  and  grim,  Mr.  Charlton,  hobbling 
with  a  stick,  a  dark  frown  on  his  furrowed  face,  and  the 
t>oatman  last  of  all. 

''  Vera  1 "  Dora  cries,  and  rushes  forward,  and  falls  on 
her  sister's  neck,  and  lifts  up  her  voice  and  weeps. 

The  rest  stand  still — a  dread  trio.  Captain  Dick  rises 
and  removes  his  pipe,  a  crushing  sense  of  iniquity  upon  him 
as  he  meets  Mrs.  Charlton's  gorgon  gaze.  Then  there  is 
silence.  And  until  the  last  day  o^  his  life  that  scene  is  before 
Dick  Ffrench — ^his  little  den  all  jubilant  with  the  morning 
sunshine.  Dora's  suppressed  sobbing,  Mrs.  Charlton's  stony 
^(lare,  and  the  dark  frown  in  his  step-father's  f&ce.  It  never 
tides.  But  most  of  all,  he  sees  little  Vera,  instinctively 
withdraw'ng  from  her  sister,  and  with  a  brave,  bright,  loyal 
tmilie,  taking  her  stand  by  his  side.  The  image  of  Vera  af 
iiw»  nood  there  will  be  with  him  his  iiitole  life-long. 


M  MOMNING  AT  SBADDECK  UQOT. 


Ill 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


A  MORNING  AT  SHADDRCK  LIGHT. 


I  ERA  is  the  first  to  'ipeak. 

'<  It  is  not  Captain  Dick's  fault,"  she  exclaimi, 
eagerly.  "  Dora — and  all  of  you  f  it  is  not  Cap* 
tain  Ffrench's  fault.  It  is  Dadd/s.  He  never  came  from 
St.  Ann's  all  last  night,  and  so  I  had  to  stay." 

A  sort  of  smothered  groan  breaks  from  Mrs.  Charlton.  It 
lays  plainer  than  words,  "Worse  and  worse!  Not  eren 
Daddy  to  act  as  chaperon." 

"  And  it  stormed  so,  I  was  frightened  nearly  to  death,  and 
then  when  that  was  over  the  tide  rose,  and  I  couldn't  walk 
— or  swim.  And  there  was  no  boat  And  Captain  Dick 
had  his  shoulder  hurt,  and  cruldn't  manage  one  if  there  was. 
And  I  tell  you  Daddy  never  came.  Dot,  why  don't  you  say 
something?"  cries  Vera,  stamping  her  foot,  all  breathless 
and  flushed  in  her  defence.  **  What  do  you  stand  looking 
like  that  for?  I  didn't  think  you  would  be  uneasy.  I 
thought  you  were  sure  to  know.  What  is  the  matter  with 
you  all?  It  was  nobody's  fault — nobody  could  help  my 
staying  here  last  night" 

No  one  speaks.  The  silence  is  beyond  all  telling,  tremen- 
dous. Richard  Ffrench  has  ridden  down  on  the  bayonets 
of  the  enemy  to  red  death  many  a  time,  has  faced  starvation 
more  than  once  last  year  on  the  pale  frozen  deep,  has  stood 
face  to  face  with  mortal  peril  many  a  time  and  oft,  but  never 
— no  never — has  he  felt  such  blank  consternation  as  posses- 
ses him  now  t  Conscience  makes  cowards  of  us  all.  He 
has  been  held  a  brave  soldier,  a  reckless  boatras'*,  a  feailesr 
explorer^  a  daring  hunter^  but  at  this  moment  he  is  horribly 


I 


sr-fl 


Ija 


A  MORNING  AT  SHADDECK  UGHT 


I 


i 


'1 


afraid  of  Mrs.  Charlton.  And  Mrs.  Charlton's  glitttN^.^ 
eye  "  is  upon  him,  and  holds  him  as  tiiat  Jthcr  dread  opdc 
held  the  trembling  wedding  guest. 

Vera  comes  a  little  nearer,  draws  quite  away  tiotn  I  )ora,  and 
stands  close  by  his  side,  her  dark  face  Huslnng  ungril). 

"Captain  Dick  is  not  to  blame,"  she  rep»  ais  proudly 
•he  never  sent  for  me,  he  never  want-d  me  to  come  liu 
\  am  glad  I  came — yes  glad  1  "  says  Vera,  flin^mj;  back  hci 
head  defiantly,  "for  if  1  had  not  he  would  have  neon  alono 
here  with  his  disabled  arm.  None  of  you  cared  !  Not  that 
he  wanted  anything,  but  if  he  had  it  would  have  been  ill  the 
same.  Daddy  went  to  the  druggist's,  and  never  came  back. 
And  now,  if  you  are  ready,"  says  Vera  picking  up  her  hat, 
and  flashing  defiance  on  the  company,  "  /  am.  C»ood-by, 
Captain  Dick." 

"  Not  good-by  just  yet  Vera,  only  good-morning,"  he 
answered,  and  with  a  smile  takes  the  hand  she  oifers  in  his 
strong  clasp.  His  eyes  praise  and  thank  her,  but  his  lips 
only  smile.  She  knows  nothing,  except  that  they  are  all 
angry  with  her  for  staying  from  home  last  night,  and  want  to 
throw  the  blame  on  him.  She  turns  to  the  door,  no  one 
Cries  to  stop  her,  on  the  contrary,  Dora  desires  the  greedily 
listening  boatman  to  go  v  ^  well. 

"  Take  her  to  the  boat,"  she  says,  '*  and  wait  till  we 
come."  ^ 

Tney  depart  and  the  house  door  closes  behind  them. 
Then  Dora  rises  in  her  outraged  sisterhood,  and  faces  the 
enemy.  To  the  frivolous  mind  it  looks  like  a  little  barn- 
yard bantam  ruffling  its  white  feathers,  and  challenging  to 
mortal  combat  a  big  Newfoundland.  But  there  are  nofrivo 
lous  minds  present,  and  Captain  Dick  feeij  his  hour  hai 
come  I  She  is  pale,  and  her  cold  blue  eyes  have  a  strangtf 
dry  glitter,  that  really  looks  as  midi  like  triumph  as  anjjer. 

"  And  now,  Captain  Ffrerxh,"  she  h«<;tias,  **  what  hars 
•iKm  to  say  ?  " 


I 


A  MORNING  AT  SHADDECK  ^CBT. 


US 


^^  Nothing  whatever,"  retorts  that  culprit,  promptly. 
''  Vera  has  told  you  all  about  it,  I  am  very  sorry  if  her 
absence  caused  you  anxiety  last  night ;  but  I  presume  the 
storm  extended  as  far  as  Charlton.  As  she  lays,  it  could 
not  be  helped." 

•*  You  have  no  more  to  say  than  this  ?  " 

"  Not  that  I  know  of.  I  am  very  sorry.  I  am  not  aware 
that  there  is  anything  more  to  be  said." 

Miss  Ligiitwood  turns  from  him  to  the  others,  as  if  saying  : 
*'  You  hear  I  He  adds  to  the  atrocity  of  his  conduct  cold- 
blooded indifference.  And  I  am  a  poor  little  unprotected 
creature,  unable  to  help  myself." 

♦'  You  must  be  aware,  sir,"  says  Mr.  Charlton,  coming  to 
the  rescue,  his  voice  harsh  with  irritating  pain,  **  that  this  is 
an  abominable  affair — that  people  will  talk — that — that  it's 
an  outrageous  affair — that  1  wouldn't  have  had  it  happen  for 
a  thousand  pounds — that — that  there  will  be  a  devil  of  a 
scandal — that — that,  in  short,  sir,  you  ought  to  be  ashamed 
of  yourself." 

He  strikes  his  stick  angrily  on  the  ground,  feeling  that 
there  is  more  stumbling  in  his  elotjuence  than  is  needful,  and 
thinking  how  little  like  the  prisoner  at  the  bar  his  boy  looks, 
standing  erect  there,  his  head  held  well  up,  his  dark  face  a 
little  pale,  his  frank,  honest,  fearless  eyes  meeting  theirs  un- 
flinchingly. For  Dick,  a  very  craven  in  his  secret  soul,  be- 
fore his  accusing  angels,  has  a  dogged  instinct  that  he  mean-j 
to  die  game,  outwardly  at  least. 

"Vera  Martinez  is  blighted  for  life,"  says  Mrs.  Charlton, 
opening  her  seal.^d  lips,  and  speaking  in  a  deep,  strong,  slow, 
rasping,  ominous  monotone. 

*'  Madam  I "  says  Dick  Ffrench,  savagely,  swinging  round, 
hb  lar«  flushing  red. 

"  Bligt  ted  for  life  1 "  repeats  Mrs.  Charlton,  waving  him 
contemptuously  down — "  irretrievably  blignted  I  She  must 
live  under  a  cloivi  all  the  rest  of  her  days.     It  would  havt 


134 


A  MORmSG  AT  SHADDECK  LIGHT, 


% 


vm  h 


m 


I!'!; 

:fi!o: 


been  better  for  her  if  you  had  turned  her  out  in  the  stomi  U 
perish,  than  have  kept  her  here.  Last  night  will  be  fatal  for- 
ever to  the  reputation  of  this  most  unhappy  young  girL" 

She  waves  her  hand  again  ;  her  tone  is  deep  and  Siddons- 
like ;  it  freezes  the  very  marrow  of  this  hapless  young 
man's  bones.  Her  gesture  is  tragic — indeed,  she  looks  un- 
commonly like  the  tragic  muse  altogether,  grown  elderly  and 
tfout.  Her  stony  stare  is  a  blood-freezing  thing  to  meet. 
Her  words  go  through  him  one  by  one  like  bullets.  Dora 
stands  pallid,  mournful,  despairing — life  evidently  holds  noth- 
ing more  for  her, 

Mr.  Charlton  is  near  her,  gloomy,  silent,  frowning.  He 
and  Dot  are  the  gentlemen  of  the  jury,  Mrs.  Charlton  is  the 
Judge.  The  black  cap  is  ready ;  he  has  been  tried  by  his  peers 
and  found  guilty.  If  he  has  anything  to  say  why  the  sen- 
tence  of  the  law  should  not  be  pronounced,  now  is  the  time  I 
It  is  the  supreme  hour  of  his  life.  And  he  stands,  tall, 
square-shouldered,  upright,  looking  from  one  to  the  other, 
the  wretched  prisoner  in  the  dock,  reading  no  hope  of  mercy 
in  either  Rhadamanthus  face. 

**  Look  here !  "  he  bursts  out  at  last,  "  this  is  all  con- 
founded rubbish,  you  know.  Blighted  I  Under  a  cloud  1 
Sent  adrift  to  perish !  By  George  1  You  use  forcible 
English,  Mrs.  Charlton  I  I  tell  you,  governor,  I  tell  you, 
Miss  Lightwood,  I  tell  you,  madam,  I  am  not  to  blame.  It 
was  simply  an  jjiipossible  thing  for  Vera  to  go  home  last 
night.  As  to  sending  her  out  to  perish,  that  is  all  bosh,  of 
course." 

^*  I  have  nv:  c  ore  to  say,"  says  Mrs.  Charlton,  folding  her 
hands,  and  turning  austerely  away.  ^*  It  is  no  business  of 
mine.  My  daughter  knows  nothing  of  it,  and  shall  not.  It 
is  a  very  delicate  and  disagreeable  subject.  I  wash  my  handf 
ot  the  whole  matter.  If  the  y*ung  person  herself  is  satisfied,** 
<rith  a  short,  file-like  laugh,  "  we  may  be,  I  think." 

*<  She  is  such  a  child — such  a  child,"  dObs  Dora,  coveriny 


A  MOKimra  at  s«addkck  ugbt. 


I3S 


II  con- 
;loud  I 
trcible 
11  you, 
le.  It 
le  last 
tsh,  of 

igher 

!SS   of 

kt.      It 

handf 


rerini 


I 


her  &ce  with  her  hands,  <<  she  does  not  know.  Oh  \  ^hy  did 
we  ever,  ever  come  I  " 

Dick  puts  his  hands  to  his  head,  feeling  that  his  senses  ait 
reeling.  What  has  he  done — what  is  he  to  do  ?  Is  it  really 
such  a  tremendous  affair  as  they  are  trying  to  make  out,  or 
is  all  this  a  new  version  of  Much  Ado  About  Nothing  ?  He 
is  not  vei.^d  in  the  nicer  gradations,  the  subtler  shades  of 
feminine  f  :opriety,  as  rigidly  required  by  Mrs.  Grundy — he 
only  knows  that  he  wishes  an  earthquake  would  split  Shad- 
deck  Light  in  two  and  swallow  him  bodily.  It  would  be  less 
terrific  than  Dora's  sobs,  or  Mrs.  Charlton's  death's-head 
stare. 

'*  What  do  you  want  me  to  do  ?  "  he  demands,  turning  at 
bay  upon  his  tormentors  at  last. 

"  I  ?  "  She  laughs  another  short,  rasping  laugh.  "  Noth- 
ing whatever,  l^  is  nothing  to  me.  Vera  Martinez's  dis- 
grace doe  *  n<  ch " 

"  Disgrace  1 '  cues  Richard  F&ench,  with  sudden  fierce- 
ness, facing  her. 

'*  There  is  no  other  word  for  it  that  I  know  of— no  other 
the  world  will  call  it  by." 

"The  world  be " 

"  No  1  "  says  Mrs.  Charlton,  lifting  her  arm  "  thai  I  will 
not  endure.  Swearing  or  passion  never  mended  a  shat- 
tered reputation  yet.  I  permit  no  man  to  blaspheme  in  my 
presence." 

**  You  mean  to  say " 

"  I  mean  to  ^ay  that  I  have  no  more  to  say.  You  ate 
Qcitber  so  ignorant,  nor  so  innocent  as  you  pretend.  You  are 
a  mat.  of  the  world.  Captain  Ffrench,  and  do  not  need  me 
to  tell  you  what  construction  the  world — when  it  knows  it — 
vill  put  upon  Miss  Vera's — ahem — eccectridty  of  last  night 
It  is  a  very  painful  and  embarrassing  subject — I  really  mmt 
decline  to  discuss  it  now  or  at  any  other  time." 

*'  But,  by  Heaven  I  it  shall  be  discussed,"  exclaims  Cap 


136 


A  MtORNINO  AT  SHADDECX  ZlSSf. 


lain  Ffrench,  fairly  enraged.  "You  come  here,  and  blacken 
that  child's  character,  and  then  tell  me  you  will  not  discusi 
the  subject " 

'*/  blacken  her  character!  You  forget  yourself^  Captair 
Ffrench  I  Mr.  Charlton,  I  must  insist  upon  going.  I  never 
permit  myself  to  be  insulted  twice." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  !  "  Dick  says,  hastily,  and  with  a  sud< 
den  total  change  of  tone.  "  I  have  no  right  to  lose  my  tem- 
per.    If  you  and  Miss  Lightwood,  governor,  will  leave  us  foi 

a  few  minutes  I  would  like  to — to "  he  is  at  a  dead-lock, 

and  the  sentence  is  not  finished. 

Dora's  tears  upset  him  beyond  everything,  and  if  there  it 
any  grain  of  truth  in  all  this  rhodomontade  he  would  like  to 
get  at  it.  Vera  to  suffer  through  him  1  Why  he  would  not 
have  a  hair  of  the  dear  little  thing's  head  hurt  for  a  universe. 

They  obey — Dora  indeed  wipes  her  eyes,  and  departs  with 
alacrity.  He  places  a  chair  for  his  marble  guest,  and  takes 
another. 

"  Sit  down,"  he  says,  briefly ;  "  let  us  get  at  the  head  hnd 
front  of  my  offending,  if  we  can.  In  all  innocence — ^in  all 
Liability  to  help  myself  it  seems  I  have  blundered.  You  tell 
me  I  did  wrong  in  keeping  the  Uttle  one  last  night.  To  do 
otherwise  was  simply  impossible,  but  we  will  let  that  go. 
Keep  her  I  did.  By  so  doing  you  say  I  have  blighted  hei 
good  name  for  life.  Now  there  are  but  two  sorts  of  evil  I 
take  it,  the  curable,  and  the  incurable.  To  which  does  this 
belong?  '  *" 

"To   the  curable,   decidedly,"    replies   Mrs.   Charlton, 
promptly.    She  sees  she  is  torturing  her  victim,  and  takes  a 
malignant  delight  in  his  writhing.     She  feels  as  a  cold-blood- 
ed naturalist  maj  who  has  a  rare  and  precious  beetle  im 
paled  on  a  pin. 

"That  is  welL     Now  what  am  I  to  do?  '* 

* '  Does  the  *  what  am  I  to  do '  not  present  itself  unsng* 
getted.  Captain  Ffrench  ?    In  my  day  when  a  young  ma» 


Ilton, 

les  • 


'i 


4  MORNING  AT  SHALDRCK  UGBT. 


13; 


I 


u 


u 


feriously  compromised  a  young  woman,  !here  was  lot  ana 
honorable  alternative — to  marry  her  1 '' 

She  brings  out  the  word  with  vicious  r  tlish.  She  has  od 
the  faintest,  slightest,  most  shadowy  thought  that  he  will  en- 
tertain the  idea,  or  she  would  never  utter  it.  Has  he  not 
been  but  just  rejected  by  her  daughter — does  he  not  l«ok 
upon  Vera  as  a  little  girl,  as  in  point  of  fact  she  is  ?  "  Purs 
cussedness  "  has  more  to  do  with  the  spiteful  suggestion  than 
any  thought  of  the  possibility  of  its  being  acted  upon. 

He  sits  quite  still,  looking  at  her — his  hands  deep  in  hii 
pockets,  after  his  usual  abstracted  fashion,  profound  gravity 
on  his  face. 

*•  This  is  the  one  alternative  ?  "  he  asks. 

**  The  one  alternative,"  she  answers,  "  and  in  this  case  out 
of  the  question." 

Why  out  of  the  question  ?  " 

Why  !  "  in  imitated  surprise.  "  Why  ?  Because  she  ti 
too  young ;  because  she  is  a  great  grown  up  baby  ;  because 
you  don't  care  a  pin  about  her;  because  you  are  going 
away ;  because — oh  1  this  is  nonsense  and  a  waste  of  time, 
and  I  really  must  go  ! " 

He  makes  no  attempt  to  detain  her.  He  rises,  opens  the 
door  politely,  and  escorts  her  to  the  boat.  In  it  is  seated 
Vera,  her  little  straw  hat  tilted  over  her  nose,  half  asleep  in 
the  sun.  On  the  rocks  are  seated  Mr.  Charlton  and  Dora, 
m  deep  conversation — Dora  still  looking  stricken  and 
mournful,  but  resigned.  Vera  starts  up  at  sight  of  him. 
They  are  making  a  great  fuss  about  nothing  she  thinks,  and 
badgering  Captain  Dick  for  what  is  no  fault  of  his,  with  his 
hurt  shoulder  and  everything. 

**Governoi,"he  says  very  quietly,  "you  will  be  at  home 
for  the  rest  of  the  day,  I  suppose  ?  Some  time  this  aftei- 
noon  I  shall  go  ashore  and  have  a  talk  with  you.  Ladieii 
fOod-morning." 

He  takes  off  his  hat  ceiemoniously  to  dame  and  demoi 


A 


rjS 


A  MOKKXHG  AT  SBADDSCr  UGHT. 


^%, 


■eile ;  to  Veia  he  gives  a  parting  smile.  That  and  the  fad 
that  he  is  coming  later  on,  sends  her  home  happy.  No  one 
scolds  her,  no  one  asks  her  questions,  the  subject  is  tadtiy 
dropped.  The  worst  is  over ;  Captain  Dick  has  been  hon- 
orably discharged  on  her  evidence  alone,  and  she  lifts  op 
her  voice  and  sings,  half  in  gladness,  half  in  mischievous  de- 
fiance of  grim  Mrs.  Charlton : 


**  A  fair  good  morn  to  thee  love, 

A  fair  good  morn  to  thee. 
And  pleasant  be  thy  path  love. 

Though  it  end  not  with  me.** 

Her  high,  sweet  singing  comes  back  on  the  morning  wind 
to  Richard  Ffrench  where  he  stands,  and  a  smile  breaks  op 
the  dark  gravity  of  his  thoughtful  face. 

**  No  vows  were  ever  plighted — 

V/e'd  no  farewell  to  say ; 
Gay  were  we  when  we  met  fint. 

We  parted  just  as  gay. 

'*  A  fair  good  mom  to  thee  love, 

A  fair  good  mom  awhile  ; 
I  have  no  parting  signs  to  give, 

So  take  my  parting  smile  I " 


At  all  times  it  cj)mes  as  naturally  as  unconsciously,  almoit 
as  frequently  to  Vera  to  carol  as  to  breathe.  The  last  words 
float  back  to  him,  as  the  Nixie  turns  into  her  little  cave  and 
disappears. 

"A  grown  up  baby  I "  he  repeats.  "  Yes,  Mrs.  Charlton, 
fou  are  right,  but  baby  or  no  baby  my  pooi  little  Vera,  it 
•eemi  I  am  to  ask  you  to  be  my  wife." 


itly 

lon- 

up 

de- 


CAPTAIN  DICK'S  WOOWQ. 


l» 


CHAPTER  XV. 


CAPTAIN  dick's  WOOING. 


rind 
I  up 


lOit 
»rdfl 
ind 


tit 


|IF1'EEN  minutes  later  Daddy  appaars  in  a  h&ng' 
dog  and  apologetic  fashion,  looking  sober  and 
sorry  for  it.  He  had  been  overtaken  ty  the 
storm,  it  appeared,  and  lying  down  in  a  back  kitchen  he 
knew  of,  had  fallen  asleep.  For  Daddy  to  fall  asleep  was  a 
much  easier  thing  than  to  awake  ;  the  gray  dawn  was  break- 
ing when  he  opened  his  eyes  again  on  this  mortal  life. 

Captain  Ffrench  waves  him  away.  He  might  have  apos- 
trophized him  as  erstwhile  Sir  Isaac  Newton  did  his  immor- 
tal dog,  Diamond  :  "  Oh,  Daddy  I  Daddy  !  little  thou  know- 
est  the  mischief  thou  hast  done  t  "  But  the  case  is  beyond 
all  apostiophizing. 

**  Go  in  and  get  your  breakfast,"  he  says,  resignedly ; 
**  don't  trouble  yourself  with  excuses.  You  have  made  the 
most  distinguished  blunder  of  your  life,  if  the  knowledge 
will  give  an  edge  to  your  appetite." 

He  is  leaning  over  the  low  wall  that  incloses  the  house^ 
his  arms  folded,  and  is  preparing  to  think  it  out.  He  had 
been  annoyed  last  night  for  Vera's  sake,  had  thought  it  an 
awkward  contretemps  for  the  child ;  but  the  light  in  which 
the  situation  has  been  presented  to  him  this  morning,  stag- 
gers him.  These  women  should  know  better  than  he,  and 
if  it  is  as  they  say,  then  reparation  must  be  made,  as  a  sim- 
ple matter  of  crirse.  But  is  it  ?  It  looks  absurd  to  him— 
women  have  a  fashion  of  magnifying  molehills  into  moun- 
tains ;  but  for  all  that  they  may  be  very  rijjfht ;  no  one  knowt 
less  than  he.  It  is  certainly  tnae  tnat  he  was  in  fault ; 
Vera  would — and  wished  to — and  could  easily  have  walked 


f40 


CAPIAIN  DICK'S  HTCOJNG 


»  , 


I 


ash  >te  hair  an  hour  after  she  came,  and  he  prevented  bet 
**  You  have  blighted  her  whole  life  I "  The  wonis  cazat 
back  to  him  in  every  surge  of  the  surf,  in  a  dread  monotone* 

Can  it  be  true  ?  His  science  is  at  fault  here  ;  all  his  bi^ 
books,  mathematical,  botanical,  geological,  cannot  help  him 
out  of  his  fo^.  "  Under  a  cloud  acr  whole  life-long  t  " 
Mrs.  Charlton  must  have  meant  it ;  she  has  no  motive  foi 
saying  what  is  false  Andl  Dora's  sobs,  and  his  step-father's 
frown — yes,  it  must  be  so.  A  horrible  blunder  has  been 
made^  and  the  penalty  must  be  paid  by  both.  He  faces  the 
situation  as  squarely  as  he  faced  the  columns  of  the  enemy 
in  the  rattling  charges  of  his  old  trooper  days.  Vera  shall 
never  suffer  through  him  ;  if  giving  her  his  name  can  shield 
her  from  the  world's  slanders,  she  shall  have  it.  But,  poor 
child  I  what  a  shame,  what  a  desecration  of  holy  childhood 
it  seems.  Her  liking  for  him  is  so  frank,  so  open,  so  inno- 
cent, so  fearless — it  is  akin  to  sacrilege  to  turn  it  to  some- 
*«hing  she  must  blush  for,  and  shrink  from,  and  fear  to  show. 

For  himself  it  does  not  so  much  matter,  and  yet  he  likes 
tus  liberty  as  well  as  most  men,  and  matrimony,  in  the  ab- 
itiact^  is  a  subject  on  which  he  has  never  bestowed  much 
thought.  He  is  not  of  a  susceptible  nature  :  even  in  his 
calf-love  days  he  never  had  the  epidemic  very  badly.  Cer- 
tainly he  has  asked  Miss  Charlton  to  marry  him — he  admires 
her,  esteems  her,  for  her  beauty,  her  goodness,  her  worth. 
If  she  had  consented,  he  would  doubtless  have  settled  down 
into  a  very  admirable  married  man — as  married  men  go,  and 
made  as  humdrum  a  head  of  a  family  as  the  majority.  He 
would,  no  doubt,  have  been  happy,  too,  not  rapturously,  noi 
excitedly  blissful,  but  with  a  cool,  steady  ^oing,  calm  t  on- 
tent,  that  would  have  spread  out  thin,  and  lasted  bettei 
than  the  enthusiastic  sort  of  thing.  But  Miss  Charlton  has 
said  no,  and  he  is  bearing  up  under  it,  and  despair  has  not 
marked  him  for  her  own.  But  whether  or  no,  to  have  to 
marry  little  Vera  I    "  By  Jove  1 "  says  Captain  Dick  blankly 


CAPTAIN  DJCirS   WOO.  ffC. 


141 


iload.  The  thing  refuses  to  look  reasonable,  all  his  think- 
ing faculties  are  at  a  dead  lock.  **  Marry  little  Vera  I  • 
And  then  he  laughs — something  utterly  absurd  in  the  whole 
thing  strikes  his  sense  of  the  ludicrous.  It  is  the  n:»ost  de- 
licious joke — or  would  be,  ii  he  were  only  a  second,  not  a 
princi^jal.  Marry  little  Vera  !  Marry  the  Dofta  Maitinez  I 
Marr)'  that  small  girl — only  sixteen,  by  George  !  and  haidl) 
twelve,  so  far  as  her  ideas  matrimonial  are  concerned  1 
What  will  Englehart  and  the  rest  of  them  say  ? 

But  his  sense  of  the  humor  of  the  thing  is  not  hilarious. 
Poor  little  Vera  I  it  is  a  shame  I  And  in  years  from  now— 
six — ten — how  will  she  regard  it  ?  Will  such  a  marriage  not 
spoil  her  life  far  more  than  the  lack  of  it  ?  She  is  not  com- 
petent to  judge  for  herself ;  there  are  misses  of  sixteen,  with 
all  a  woman's  maturity  of  judgment  on  the  two  great  sub- 
jects of  female  life — dress  and  husbands  ;  but  she  is  not  one 
of  them.  There  are  girls  and  girls.  Vera  will  say  yes  if  he 
asks  her,  because  she  likes  him  in  her  girlish  fashion,  and 
because  she  does  not  understand  enough  to  say  no.  Hit 
face  grows  grave — ^hc  resolves  that  he  never  will  ask  her. 
If  her  life  is  to  be  sacrificed,  some  one  else  shall  prevail 
upon  her  to  sacrifice  it.  Still  his  duty— if  it  be  his  duty — 
must  be  done. 

He  stands  a  long  time  there,  grave,  preoccupied,  trying 
to  see  daylight,  and  failing  lamentably.  It  is  all  a  muddle 
— and  much  thinking  only  makes  a  bad  matter  worse.  He 
gives  it  up  at  last,  and  goes  indoors  to  his  big,  dusty,  grim- 
looking  volumes.  These  are  frienJs,  at  least,  that  never  t)e- 
wild'T — that  are  tried,  and  trusty,  and  true.  But  reading  is 
no*  so  easy  as  he  thinks.  Vera  conies  between  him  and 
every  page  ;  V^era  with  her  wistful  face,  as  he  opened  his 
eyes,  and  saw  her  first  last  evening,  frightened,  troubled  f<M 
him  ;  Vera  all  bright  with  defiance  this  morning,  taking  hef 
Bcand  by  his  side,  and  doing  battle  in  his  defence;  Vers 
leated  beside  him,  telling  hiri  her  pathetic  little  stOTy  of 


143 


CAPTAIN  DICK  S    VOOING, 


death,  ind  loss,  and  weary  work.  And  he  has  done  hei 
harm  I  He  feels  as  a  man  may  who  has  crippled  foi  life 
through  his  blundering  carelessness  a  little  child. 

Poor  little  Vera  1  dear  little  Vera !  Eithei  fate  S'semi 
equally  hard  for  her.  But  his  mind  is  made  up.  If  Vera  i» 
not  old  enough,  or  wise  enough  to  decide  for  herself,  her 
sister  is  both.  Shrewd,  unscrupulous,  keen  little  woman  of 
the  world  that  she  is.  Dora  shall  be  umpire.  She  lovea 
the  little  one — surely  she  will  know  and  decide  for  the  best. 

It  is  almost  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  when  Captain 
Ffrench  is  shown  into  his  step-father's  private  study.  Mr. 
Charlton  is  ensconced  in  his  arm-chair,  lying  back  wit^  closed 
eyes,  and  in  a  low  rocker  near  Miss  Lightwood  sits  reading 
aloud.  And  very  charming  indeed  Miss  Lightwood  looks, 
in  the  green  twilight  of  the  shaded  room,  as  fair,  and  fresh, 
and  pink  as  a  rose.  Her  dress  is  white  Swiss,  and  crisp  as  a 
new  bank-note, .  and  her  pretty  arms  and  neck  sparkle 
dirough  its  gauzy  clearness — ^her  fair  hair  is  "done"  in  a 
gilded  pyramid  on  the  top  of  her  head,  and  frizzed  dowc 
to  her  eyebrows.  She  lays  down  her  book  and  looks  up 
with  a  smile,  but  the  smile  fades  when  she  sees  the  visitor. 
She  rises,  gives  him  one  reproachful  glance,  says  something 
incoherently,  and  hurries  out  of  the  room.  Evidently  she  has 
not  got  over  it. 

*'  I  am  very  sorry  to  intrude  upon  you,"  Captain  Ffrench 
«ays,  standing  ergct,  a  certain  stiffness,  both  in  words  and 
manner.  "I  certainly  would  not  have  done  so,  after  oui 
recent  interview,  but  for  this  unfortunate  affair  of  last  night." 

"You  do  well  to  call  it  an  unfortunate  affair  It  is  that, 
and  more,  and  she  is  likely  to  find  out  to  her  co$*t,  poor  little 
fool!" 

"  Not  if  any  action  of  mine  can  repair  tht  folly.  The 
fiiul*^  of  her  staying  was  wholly  mine — thoughtlcisly,  but  ab- 
folutely  mine.  She  wanted  to  go  home ;  she  could  have 
gone  home,  bet  I  liked  to  have  her  with  me,  and  detaine-d 


CAPTAIN  DICK'S  WOOING, 


143 


her.  I  need  hardly  say  ^  expected  to  send  her  home  with 
Daddy  after  dark.  I  failed  to  do  \..Ai^  and  the  consequence 
I  ani  told  is,  that  her  good  name  is,  or  may  be  injured.  1 
don't  know  much  about  these  delicate  matters  myself— I 
have  no  wish  needlessly  to  sacrifice  my  own  future  or  hers, 
to  the  prurient  scruples  of  an  old  woman — I  don't  see  my 
way  clearly  to  what  is  my  duty  in  this  matter.  When  I  do 
I  am  ready  to  do  it." 

'*  You  were  told  tolerably  plainly  though,  this  morning." 
<<  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  believe  all  that  rot,  about 
blighting  her  life,  and  so  on  ?    I  ask  you,  governor,  as  man 
to  man — i'      .ain  £nglish,  do  you  think  I  am  bound  to 
marry  Vera  ?  " 

'*  In  plain  English,  then — yes^  if  she  will  have  you.** 
Thei  ^  is  a  pause.  Mr.  Charlton  looks  up  under  his  bushy 
brows.  In  his  heart  he  knows  this  advice  is  not  disinterested 
— ^in  his  heart  he  knows  if  his  boy  were  not  on  the  verge  of 
departure  for  years,  he  would  never  give  it.  Vera  is  well 
enough,  but  she  is  too  young  to  be  D'ck's  wife.  He  wishes 
to  see  him  married  and  settled,  but  not  to  a  half-educated 
slip  of  a  girl.  But  he  too  has  argued  the  matter  out,  and  it 
stands  thus :  If  Dick  does  not  marry  he  will  go — if  he  does 
marry  he  must — ^he  ought,  in  common  decency,  to  stay. 
Ergo,  it  is  better  he  should  marry.  And  then  Dora  has  been 
talking  to  him,  and  ma!  ng  him  see  the  case  with  her  sharp 
little  eyes.  It  is  coming  to  this  pass,  that  Dor^^  wan  make 
bim  see  all  things  pretty  much  as  she  wishes. 

"  Very  weU,  sir,"  says  Dick  Ffrench,  resignedly,  "  that  is 
•IL  I  abide  by  your  decision.  Now  I  will  leave  you.  I 
trust  your  coming  out  this  morning  \as  not  caused  any  re- 
lapse?" 

Mr.  Charlton  replies  curtly  in  the  negative.  He  is  dying 
lo  know  what  is  in  Dick's  mind,  what  he  intends  to  do,  if  he 
will  really  propose  to  Vera,  and,  pending  her  growing  up, 
resign  Honduras,  but  he  is  too  proud  to  ask.    Dick  rauil 


I 


I! 


1 1  Wm 


i'aIi  il 


ii 


144 


CAPIAIS  DlCtrs  WOOING, 


/olunteer,  he  will  never  again  broach  the  Honduras  matte* 

**  Where  am  I  most  likely  to  find  Miss  I^ightwood?^ 
Ffrench  asks. 

"  Miss  Lightwood  ?    Do  you  mean  Vera  ?  "  ' 

*'  I  mean  Miss  Lightwood.  I  am  going  up  to  New  York 
by  the  five  o'clock  train,  and  have  a  few  words  to  say  to  hei 
first/ 

'<  She  is  generally  in  the  drawing-room  when  she  is  not 
here."  Going  to  New  York,  Mr.  Charlton  thinks.  Humph  I 
that  is  odd  too. 

Dora  is  in  the  drawing-room,  in  the  recess  of  a  bay-win- 
dow, embowered  in  flowers.  At  quite  the  other  end  of  the 
room,  Eleanor  is  at  the  piano,  playing  one  of  Schubert's 
tender,  pathetic  pieces.  He  greets  her  gravely  and  passes 
on,  and  stands  before  Dora.  What  he  has  to  say  he  can 
«ay  in  a  few  words — to  all  intents  and  purposes  they  are 
alone. 

**I  am  going  to  New  York  this  afternoon,"  he  begins, 
^  and  am  not  likely  to  be  down  again  more  than  once  before 
my  departure,  and  then  only  for  a  few  hours." 

She  glances  up  quickly ;  it  is  not  the  opening  she  has 
looked  for,  but  something  in  his  face  and  tone  tells  her  there 
is  more  behind. 

'*  I  do  not  forget  what  you  and  Mrs.  Charlton  said  to  me 
this  morning — that  is  not  likely.  It  has  made  all  the  impres- 
sion either  of  you  could  desire.  I  am  here  to  make  whatevei 
atonement  I  can  make — whatever  it  is  my  duty  to  make.  You 
ure  Yera's  sister,  friend,  monitor — older,  wiser,  better  versed 
in  the  world  than  she.  Her  welfare  must  be  near  to  your 
heait.  Decide  for  her  then.  In  this  evil,  that  I  have  in 
advertently  brought  upon  her  what  is  it  that  you  wish, me  to 
do?" 

Hei  cheeks  flush  hotly.     He  stands  before  her,  erect,  so 
masterfiil,  so  simple,  so  earnest,  in  his  strong,  young  man 
hood,  that  he  puts  her  to  shame.    After  all«  she  is  a  woman, 


i 


CAPTAIN  DICtrS  WOOING, 


145 


he  a  man,  and  the  blunt  directness  of  the  question  make* 
hei  wince,  and  turn  hot  all  over  her  body.  "  I  want  you  to 
marry  my  sister,"  is  almost  as  hard  to  say  as  "  I  want  you  to 
marry  »i^." 

*'  Will  yon  not  sit  down  ?  "  she  says,  almost  petulantly,  and 
turning  from  him. 

"  Thank  you — no.  If  I  catch  my  train/'  looking  at  hil 
watch,  *'  I  have  but  little  time  to  spare.  This  is  a  matter  1 
cannot  possibly  discuss  with  Vera ;  cannot  broach  to  her  at 
all.     I  want  my  answer  then  from  you." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  will  not  speak  to  her  at  all  of-^ 
of " 

'*  I  mean  to  say  I  will  not  speak  to  her  at  all.  Whatever 
Sa  to  be  said  to  the  poor  child,  you — her  sister — shall  say  it 
From  first  to  last,  the  issue  and  its  consequences  shall  rest 
with  you." 

She  looks  up  at  him,  and  almost  hates  him.  All  the  same, 
all  the  more,  he  shall  marry  Vera. 

"  It  is  rather  hard  to  throw  the  consequence  of  yoi*^ 
unprudence  and  hers,  on  my  shoulders.  Still,  as  you  say 
her  welfare  is  very  dear  to  me»  We  two  stand  quite  alone 
in  the  world.  I  am  bound  not  to  see  her  wronged  without 
lifting  my  voice.  And — thoughtlessly  I  am  sure — meaning 
no  iU  I  know,  you  have  done  her  grievous  wrong,  Captain 
Ffrench  1 " 

**  So  it  seems.     Now,  how  am  I  to  set  that  wrong  right  ?  " 

**  There  is  but  one  way,"  she  says,  and  looks  him  boldly 
in  the  face,  though  her  color  deepens  again. 

«*  And  that  is ?" 

"  To  shield  her  with  your  name — tc  make  her  your  wife." 

He  bows  his  head.  Eleanor  sits  with  her  back  to  him, 
playing  very  softly,  so  as  not  to  disturb  their  conversation. 
A  strange  sort  of  angry,  impatient  pain  fills  him,  set,  it  seems 
to  him,  in  some  intangible  way  to  the  -nournful  sweetness  ol 
the  air. 

f 


i- 
i 


146 


CAPTAIN  DICJC'S  WOOING, 


''  Does  she  know?"  he  azks  at  length. 

'*  She  knows  nothing  "  Dora  intemipts  quxklj,  '*  iioth* 
4ng  1  Do  you  think  I  would  tell  her,  Captain  Ffrench  ? 
Vera  is  as  innocent  as  an  angel,  as  ignorant  as  a  baby.  No 
one  has  said  one  word  to  her." 

"  That  is  well.  And  now  the  matter  simplifies  itself.  I 
am  going  as  I  say — I  will  be  down  only  once  more.  You 
will  ask  your  sister  for  me,  if  she  will  do  me  the  honor  to 
become  my  wife.  Her  answer,  you,  or  she,  or  both  can 
write.     Here  is  my  address.     If  that  answer  is  yes——." 

"It  will  be  yes,"  says  Dora,  very  low. 

"  You  will  arrange  the  marriage  for  the  twenty-third.  On 
the  twenty-fourth  I  will  sail  with  the  expedition.  My  friend, 
Dr.  £nglehart,  will  come  down  with  me ;  and  I — if  it  is  all 
the  same  to  you  and  her — I  should  wish  the  matter  kept  as 
private  as  may  be.  I  can  depend  upon  Englehart,  and  I  think 
it  is  best  the  others  should  not  know.  It  is  a  subject  you 
see  on  which  I  should  not  relish  chafif." 

She  looks  up  at  him.  "You  will  really  go  then?"  is  on 
the  tip  of  her  tongue,  but  she  bites  it  and  bows  silently. 

"  It  shall  be  as  you  say.  If  Vera  is  to  be  wooed  and  won 
by  proxy,  I  might  as  well  be  the  ambassadress,  I  suppose. 
Please  give  me  your  New  York  address." 

He  gives  it.  And  now  a  sense  of  the  grim  humor  of  the 
thing  begins  to  dawn  on  Dora.  She  is  a  designing  little 
witch,  but  she  4mus  this  redeeming  point,  she  knows  a  joke 
when  she  sees  it  and  can  laugh.  A  faint  smile  ripples  about 
hei  lips  now,  as  with  the  greatest  gravity  he  pencils  his  hotel, 
and  hands  it  to  her. 

**You  will  say  to  Vera — for  me — what  you  think  best. 
On  the  twent)4hird  I  w:ll  be  here.  You  will  make  her 
understand  that  I  do  not  give  *ip  the  expedition,  and  that  I 
may  be  absent  for  years.  Mr.  Charlton  will  of  course  give 
hxx  a  home  here,  until  my  return — that  I  must  exact  if  I 
marry.     You  will  mention  it  to  him." 


CAPTAIN  DICK'S   WOOING. 


147 


**  Anything  else,  Captain  Kfrench  ?  " 

"  That  is  all,  I  think.  I  will  not  see  Vera  just  now— ii  fi 
better  I  should  not.  Make  my  adieux  to  her.  Good  day, 
Miss  Lightwood." 

He  bows  and  departs.  Dora  looks  after  him  a  moment, 
her  bright  eyes  dancing  with  laughter. 

**  Was  there  ever  such  a  great,  simple-headed,  ridiculous 
Dick,"  she  thinks.  *'  /am  to  do  his  courting,  am  I  ?  What 
An  artless  pair  he  and  Vera  will  make — about  five  years  old» 
each  of  them  !  " 

She  laughs  softly,  as  she  watches  him  say  good-by  to 
Eleanor. 

**  And  what  will  Nelly  say — asking  her  one  day,  and  mar 
rying  Vera  the  next  ?    And  her  mother  1    Ah  I  Mrs.  Charl 
ton,  you  builded  better  than  you  knew,  when  you  took  Cap 
tain  Dick  to  task — not  for  Vera's  sake,  but  to  gratify  your 
own  inborn  ill-nature.     And  Charlton  is  to  be  the  child's 
home  after  all  1 " 

She  sees  the  young  man  leave  the  house,  and  go  down  the 
avenue  with  his  long  trooper's  stride.  Vera  is  nowhere 
about,  and  he  is  glad  of  it.  He  feels  he  cannot  meet  her 
just  now.  When  he  has  quite  gone,  Dora  rises  briskly,  and 
goes  up  to  her  sister's  room.  'N^'era  lies,  indulging  in  an 
afternoon  siesta,  indu:ed  by  her  sentimental  vigil  of  Uuit 
night,  all  unconscious  :hat  the  ha  u  is  past,  and  her  hera 
come  and  gone. 


* 


I4B 


BOW  DCMA  DOES 


CHAPTER  XVL 


HOW  DORA  DOBS  IT. 


m.. 


i    vU 


fORA  stands  a  moment  and  looks  at  her  sister,  a  haU 
smile  on  her  face.  Vera  has  coiled  heiself  up  like 
a  kitten,  in  her  white  cover — sleep  and  warmth 
have  flushed  her  cheeks — all  her  black,  short  tresses  curl  up 
damp  and  silky  around  hsr  forehead.  She  looks  like  the 
child  she  is,  although  tall  and  well-grown  for  her  sixteen 
years,  and  she  comes  nearer  being  pretty,  just  now,  than 
Dora  has  ever  seen  her. 

*'  Can  it  be  possible  she  is  going  to  grow  into  a  handsome 
woman  ?  "  Miss  Lightwood  thinks ;  "  her  father  was,  I  think, 
the  handsomest  man  I  ever  saw,  and  Vera  resembles  h'm. 
If  she  does,  Richard  Ffrench  will  not  have  done  so  very  badly 
after  alL  He  is  fond  of  her,  too,  but  not  in  that  way — ^yet. 
Men  of  his  stamp  never  fall  in  love  with  girls  in  the  transi- 
tion stage — in  the  short  frock — and  bread-and-butter  epoch— 
they  require  full-grown  women.  Weill  Vera  will  be  that 
before  he  returns  from  his  silver  mining,  and  then  he  can 
woo  his  wife  at  -his  leisure." 

She  takes  a  seat  by  the  window,  through  which  a  cool 
breeze  is  blowing  up  from  Shaddeck  Bay.  She  dees  not 
awaken  her  sister ;  there  is  no  hurry.  It  has  been  said 
already  that  this  girl  is  ths  one  creature  on  earth  Dora 
lightwood  loves.  To  her  mind  this  thing  she  is  about  to 
do  is  a  proof  of  that  love.  Vera  is  fond,  very  fond  of 
Richard  Ffrench ;  she  admires  him  beyoni  everything — ^he 
is  her  Sir  William  Wallace,  her  Sir  Folko  Atontfau^on,  hei 
Sir  I^unceW  all  in  one,  and  a  little  superior  to  any  of  thenv 


HOW  DORA  DOES  IT. 


149 


cool 

not 

said 

IDora 

It  to 

of 

k— he 

hei 

leia 


What  can  conduce  more  to  her  future  happiness  than  to  be 
made  his  wife  ?  Vera  has  never  thought  of  this,  never  oncci 
and  Dora  knows  it — her  fondness  and  admiration  are  in  the 
abstract.  She  would  be  perfectly  satisfied  to  see  him  married 
to  Eleanor  or  herself — all  the  same  she  would  like  to  remain 
near  him,  to  be  with  him  always.  The  girlish  fancy  which 
makes  him  her  ideal  hero  of  romance  now,  will  make  him 
the  man  she  loves  by  and  by.  Vera  is  of  the  type  whose 
destinies  are  ruled  much  more  by  their  heart  than  head — her 
love  will  make  or  mar  her  life.  Then — taking  a  more  practi- 
cal turn — Captain  Ffrench  is  likely,  eventually,  to  be  not  only 
a  very  rich,  but  also  a  very  distinguished  man.  He  ha> 
tiient  of  no  common  order,  he  has  unflinching  determination, 
a  dogged  resoluteness  to  succeed.  He  is  not  afraid  of  hard 
work  or  waiting.  Men  of  that  kind  are  hound,  sooner  or 
later,  to  go  up  to  the  head  of  the  class.  Married  to  him, 
Vera's  toiling  days  will  be  over ;  Charlton,  which  she  loves 
so  much,  will  be  her  home ;  she  will  have  nothing  to  do,  but 
grow  up  gracefully,  study  the  accomplishments,  transfomr 
herself  into  a  pretty  woman,  and  win  her  husband's  heart  on 
his  return.  On  the  whole,  it  is  just  as  well  he  is  going.  Vera 
is  too  young ;  she  needs  at  least  four  years  of  hard  study, 
then  a  winter  in  "  the  world  ; "  at  the  end  of  that  time  she 

will  be  fit  to  be  any  man's  wife.     For  herself but  here 

Dora  breaks  off,  and  her  musing,  half  smile  deepens.  She 
has  her  own  dreams>  and  into  them  the  show-rooms  on 
Fourteenth  Street  erter  not.  She  may  sweep  through 
madame's  handsome  suite  occasionally,  but  it  will  not  be  ai 
forewoman.  The  waving  trees  of  Charlton  Place  <  ast  invit- 
ing shadows  as  she  sits  and  looks.  These  are  pleasant 
pastures — why  go  out  from  them  to  crop  the  scant]  herbage 
that  grows  about  the  streets  of  New  York  ? 

All  in  a  mon^ent  Vera  awakes,  looks  blinking!/  about  heii 
robs  her  knuckles  into  her  eyes,  and  sits  up  with  a  gape. 

*'  Yoii,  Dot  ?     Is  it  morning  ?  " 


I 


'lii 

8 


f    U       :   ■>    ■ 


A  ■■*;: 


»    •!- 


H.  .i' 


')  I 


150 


i/Oir  Z>OiP^  DOES  IT. 


'*It  it  five  in  the  afternoon/'  answers  Miss  lightwood 
"  I  hope  you  have  had  a  long  enough  nap." 

Five  in  the  afternoon  I  Memory  comes  back  to  Vera 
ivith  a  bounce.  She  jumps  out  of  bed,  and  stands  the  pictur* 
of  consternation. 

**  Five  i  and  Captain  Dick  said  he  would  I  e  here  at  three. 
Has  he  not  come,  then  ?  " 

"  Captain  Dick  is  the  soul  of  punctuality,  my  dear,  and 
every  other  virtue.     He  has  been  and  gone." 

"  Gone ! " 

"  Gone — gone  to  New  York.  He  bade  me  say  good-bj 
kx  him  to  you.     He  has  been  gone  precisely  half  an  hour.** 

Vera  sits  down  on  the  side  of  the  bed,  dismay  in  every 
feature.  Tears  fill  her  eyes,  tears  of  anger,  and  reproach, 
and  keenest  disappointment.     Her  lips  quiver. 

"  Gone  !  and  you  never  called  me.     Oh.  Dot  1 " 

"  Did  you  want  to  see  him  so  badly,  then  ?  Why,  child, 
it  is  not  possible  you  are  crying  ?  Oh,  this  will  never  do  I 
you  are  as  ignorant  as  a  Hottentot  of  all  sense  of  feminine 
decorum." 

**  I  don't  care  for  decorum,"  says  Vera,  swallowing  a  gulp, 
"  and  I  do " 

"  For  Dick  Ffrench.  Tlhaf  is  patent  to  the  universe.  My 
dear,  do  you  know  what  your  Captain  Dick  would  have  a 
right  to  think  if  he  saw  you  now  1 " 

**  That  I  was^wfully  sorry  he  went  aw^  /  without  saying 
good-by." 

"  Worse  than  that — that  you  were  awfully  in  love  with 
him.  * 

If  Dora  expects  to  galvanize  Vera  into  a  sense  of  her  in 
deconim  by  this  abrupt  announcement,  she  is  mistaken.  Vera 
only  chews  the  end  of  her  handkerchief,  and  looks  a  trifle 
eulky. 

"  I  don't  care  1  He  wouldn't  think  anything  of  the  kind 
As  if  a  person  couldn't  like  a  person  withe  at  being  vt  k>vi 


HOW  DORA  DOES  IT, 


iSi 


with  him.     I  think  it  was  hateful  of  you,  Dot,  not  to  tall  me^ 
when  you  knew  I  wanted  to  see  him  so  much." 

"  You  always  do  want  to  see  him  so  much,  don't  you  F 
And  it  is  such  a  tremendous  time  since  you  saw  him  last  1  I 
should  think,"  says  Dora,  a  smile  dawning  about  her  pretty 
mouth,  **you  and  he  could  have  talked  yourselves  completely 
out  of  every  earthly  subject  last  night." 

<*We  didn't  sit  up  talking  all  night,  and  you  know  it 
And  now  he  has  gone  to  New  York,  and  perhaps  will  not 
come  down  again  at  all." 

The  tears  are  welling  very  near  the  surface  again,  and 
tremble  in  the  voice  that  speaks. 

"Oh,  yes,  he  will — ^he  said  so ;  he  told  me  to  tell  you  so, 
He  is  coming  down  for  a  particular  purpose,  indeed.  Vera, 
come  here — sit  down.  I  have  a  message  for  you  from 
Captain  Ffrench.** 

Vera  looks  eagerly. 

**Yes,  Dot?  But  you  might  have  called  me,  I  think 
What  is  it?" 

"  You  are  very  fond  of  Captain  Dick,  are  you  not  ?  " 

"  Of  course ! "  says  Vera,  promptly,  and  a  little  indig 
nantly,  at  being  questioned  on  such  a  self-evident  fact.  **  I 
don't  see  how  any  one  could  help  it." 

Again  Dora  smiles,  laughs  outright  indeed.  It  is  impossi* 
ble  to  help  it — the  child  is  so  overpoweringly  verdant. 

"  Well — but  it  won't  do  to  say  so  to  everybody  you  know. 
You  are  sixteen,  Vera,  and  tall  enough  to  be  twenty.  You 
are  a  young  lady — not  a  child." 

"  Am  I  ?  "  doubtfully.  "  I  wish  you  wouldn't  keep  my 
{iresses  up  to  my  ankles  then,  and  I  should  love  to  have  a 
crinoline.  But  the  message !  the  message  1  Captain  Dick 
didn't  tell  you  to  tell  me  I  was  grown  up  ?  " 

"Something  like  it.  Vera,  your  simplicity,  your  green- 
ness exceeds  all  belief.  Look  here  1  do  you  ^lappen  to  know 
what  being  married  means  ?  " 


153 


HOW  DORA  DOJi^  IT, 


vm^ 


il;i 


** Certainly  I  do !*'  retorts  Vera,  indignantly ;  '* it  meaai 
everything  dovtrdy  and  stupid  that  ever  was  1  It  means  scold- 
ing the  help,  and  slapping  the  children,  and  having  a  horrid 
time  getting  money  from  your  husband ' 

"  Yes,  I  see  you  know,"  says  Dora,  laughing.  "  Yoa  are 
thinking  of  Mrs.  Trafton.  But  everybody  does  not  of  necet* 
sity  marry  a  rich  old  miser.  *'  Some  girls,"  says  Dora,  sniilin3 
into  her  sister's  large,  unconscious  eyes,  ••  marry  tall,  good- 
looking  young  gentlemen — ex-captains  of  cavalry,  let  us  say 
—of  whom  they  are  very,  very,  very  fond,  and  they  live  in 
places  they  think  beautiful  beyond  telling,  and  are  happy  as 
the  day  is  long.  Vera !  Vera !  what  a  goose  you  are  I  don't 
you  understand  ?  Would  you  not  like  to  be  married  ?  Would 
you  not  like  to  be  married  to  Richard  Ffrench  ?  " 

Vera  sits  quite  still,  her  eyes  so  unwinkingly  fixed  upon 
her  sister,  that  she  makes  that  eminently  self-possessed  young 
woman  wince.  Her  color  rises  slowly,  and  deepens  and 
deepens,  but  she  looks  neither  startled  nor  slyr. 

**  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  she  says. 

"  Oh,  yes  you  do  !  You  are  fond  of  Captain  Dick.  When 
a  young  lady  is  fond  of  a  young  gentleman  she  naturally 
wishes  to  marry  him." 

"  Does  she  ?  "  says  Vera,  dubiously.  "  I  suppose  so.  It 
always  ends  that  way  in  stories.  But  I  am  not  fond  of  Cap* 
tain  Ffrench  like— like  that^ 

"  No  ?     In  what  way  then  ?  " 

**I  never  thought  about  marrying,"  says  Vera,  the  red  ril- 
ing to  the  roots  of  her  hair,  "  and  you  know  it." 

"  But  he  has,"  says  Dora,  with  emphasis  :  "  he  is  not  quite 
such  a  babe  in  the  wood  as  you,  my  dear  Vera.  He  hai 
tf  lought  about  marrying,  not  only  thought  about  it,  but  spokes 
about  it." 

**  About — marrying — me  ?  " 

"  About — marrying— >^?«  /  *" 

*  But  that  is  all  nonsense  1 "  cries  Vera,  anaazed  and  bk 


HOW  DORA  DOES  IT. 


1 53 


dignant  "  He  must  Lave  been  in  fun,  you  kn<!w.  >Vhyy  it 
is  absurd !  Only  a  week  oi  so  ago  he  asked  Eleanor.  I 
wish  you  wouldn't  say  such  ridiculous  things,  Dot" 

"  Now,  Vera,  listen  here.  It  isn't  ridiculous.  Captain 
Ffrench  certainly  asked  Eleanor  to  marry  him,  but  it  was  to 
please  his  step-father,  not  himself ;  he  likes  you  best.  Do 
you  think  he  took  Miss  Charlton's  refusal  very  much  to 
heart  ?  Why,  any  one  could  see  he  was  glad  of  it.  He  likei 
you  best,  and  he  wants  you  to  marry  him,  Vera." 

"  Wants  me  to  marry — him  ! " 

The  words  drop  from  her  slowly,  in  vast  amaze.  She  if 
trying  to  take  in  the  idea.  It  is  so  entirely  new  that  it  re- 
fuses to  be  taken  in  all  in  a  moment.  But  a  great,  slow 
light  of  gladness  is  coming  into  her  eyes,  too. 

"  Wants  you  to  marry  him,"  repeats  Dora,  watching  hei 
dosely. 

The  dark  eyes  flash  out  a  quick,  sudden  joy. 

"  Dot,  would  he  stay  at  home  ?  Would  he  stay  here  al 
ways  ?    Would  he  not  go  to  Honduras  ?  " 

"  Oh,  well,  I  am  not  so  sure  about  that.  He  has  prom- 
ised, you  know,  and  men  like  to  keep  their  word.  But  he 
would  come  back  all  the  sooner,  and  when  he  came  back 
you  need  never  be  separated  from  him  more." 

Never  be  separated  from  him  more  ! — never  be  separated 
from  Captain  Dick  1  There  is  rapture  in  the  thought.  It 
dawns  upon  her  slowly.  Always  with  him,  rowing,  driving, 
singing — seeing  him,  hearing  him,  becoming  acquainted  with 
his  numberless  perfections  day  after  day.  Why  the  very 
tliought  is  elysian. 

*•  Dora,"  she  says,  in  solemn  ;cstasy,  "  I  should  love  to 
marry  Captain  Dick  1  " 

The  look  that  accompanies  this  is  too  much  for  Dora.  She 
leMis  back  ii;  her  chair  and  laughs  until  the  tearf  "tand  in 
her  eyes. 

*  Oh,  Vera,  child,  ycu  will  be  the  deam  jf  me  yet  I    Oh, 


i^iy  .^.. 


jf'^'io' 


!^ 


m 


154 


JTOH^  DORA  DOES  IT. 


fou  simpleton !    You  must  never  say  soch    a   tliiQg   M 
thatl" 

"  Why  not,  if  it  is  true  ?  " 

*<  Because — Decause  the  truth,  the  whole  truth,  is  not  to 
be  told  at  ail  times.  It  is  too  rare  and  precious  to  be  used 
in  common  in  that  way.  Why,  it  would  turn  this  crazy  old 
world  topsy-turvy  in  no  time.  You  must  never,  never  say 
you  would  love  to  marry  any  man.     It  is  simply  awful  1 " 

"  Not  even  Captain  Dick  ?  " 

"  Not  even  Captain  Dick — least  of  all  Captain  Dick.  Yoa 
must  never  let  a  man  know  you  are  so  fond  of  him  as  all 
that.     It  would  be  ruinous." 

"  Would  it  ?  "  says  Vera,  looking  dreadfully  puzzled.  "  I 
am  afraid  I  don't  understand." 

^'  I  am  afraid  you  don't.  But  you  understand  this — ^that 
Captain  Dick  wants  to  marry  you  ?  " 

"  What  does  he  want  to  marry  me  for  ?  " 

There  is  something  so  irresistible  in  Vera's  gravity  as  she 
asks  these  killing  questions.,  that  Dora  nearly  goes  off  again. 
But  she  restrains  herself. 

"  Because  he  is  very  fond  of  you,  of  course.  The  fondness 
is  mutual,  you  see.  Why  does  any  gentleman  ask  a  lady  to 
marry  him  ?  " 

'*  To  please  his  step-father  sometimes,  it  seems.  But  that 
cannot  be  the  reason  now.  Mr.  Charlton  does  not  want 
him  to  marry  m^  Doi  i,  I  believe  this  is  all  some  joke  yon 
ha>e  made  up  to  tease  me." 

**  On  my  honor  1  The  last  thing  Captain  Dick  said  to  me, 
not  an  hour  ago,  was  to  ask  you  to  be  his  wife  before  he 
started  for  Central  America." 

**Then  he  was  playing  a  practical  joke,  ind  I  muft 
lay " 


<*  Vera,  don't  be  an  idiot  1  I  tell  you  io  1  He  likes  y<NV 
and  wants  to  marry  you,  and  Mr.  Charlton  is  very  much 
pleased.     Why  4on't  you  believe  me?** 


t  i 


HOW  DORA  DOES  IT. 


i$S 


**  Becaus  2  the  idea  of  anyone  wanting  to  marry  me-^m  I 
— —  O)*  it  is  ridiculous  I  And  if  he  does,  why  didn't  yon 
wake  me  up,  and  let  him  ask  me  himself?"  says  Vera,  still 
incredulous  and  suspicious. 

"  Why  ?  Oh  !  well,  you  see  he  was  rejected  by  one  lady 
such  a  very  short  time  ago,  that  really  the  poor  fellow  haa 
not  the  hardihood  to  risk  a  second  refusal.  He  spoke  to  Mr. 
Charlton  about  it  first  this  afternoon,  and  then  to  me.  You 
were  so  young,  he  said,  and  he  feared  to  startle  you,  and  all 
that,  and  would  I  just  ask  you  for  him.  So  I  said  yes,  and 
that  is  why  he  did  not  wait  to  see  you.  He  was  in  a  hurry, 
too,  to  catch  the  five  o'clock  express.  Here  is  his  New 
York  address,  and  you  are  to  write  to  him  and  tell  him  your 
decision." 

Slowly  conviction  is  breaking  upon  Vera.  But  it  is  the 
strangest  thing — the  hardest  to  comprehend.  Captain 
Ffrench  want  to  marry  her  /  She  knows  he  likes  her,  but — 
she  is  fairly  puzzled,  troubled,  afraid  to  believe,  yet  longing 
to  do  so.  To  be  always  with  Captain  Dick — ^always  with  him 
at  Charlton.     What  a  heavenly  idea  1 

"If  you  don't  believe  me,  come  to  Mr.  Charlton,"  says 
E>ora,  calmly ;  "  he  is  not  in  the  habit  of  playing  practical 
jokes." 

But  Vera  rejects  this  idea  with  consternation.  Not  for  all 
the  world.     Is  Dora  sure  he  is  really  pleased? 

"  Charmed,"  Dora  asseverates. 

*'  And  Eleanor,  and  Mrs.  Charlton ^" 

"  They  do  not  know — shall  not  know  for  the  present.  Tho 
wedding  is  to  oe  strictly  private.  That  is  Captain  Dick's  wish.* 

The  wedding  1     Vera  gives  a  gasp. 

♦•Then— when " 

"  In  about  a  fortnight,"  responds  Dora  with  composure ; 
"  It  is  suddec,  but  it  is  also  his  wish.  He  leaves  on  th« 
twenty-fourth,  he  wishes  the  wedding  to  be  on  the  twffitf 
third.     Those  are  his  words  " 


1^ 

If 

I' 


m  'j> 


156 


/rOfy  DORA  DOSS  IT. 


Vera  sits  silent.  Her  unusual  color  is  gopc,  and  th«  dniil 
fiM:e  an  J  great  dark  eyes  look  wistfiiL 

''  It  is  so  strange — so  strange,"  she  sighs.  "  I  don't  know 
what  to  say ^" 

*' You  don't  know  what  to  say  1 "  exclaims  Dora,  aghast 
with  surprise,  '*why  you  inexplicable  child,  I  thought  yoi 
would  be  delighted." 

"  Yes,  yes,  so  I  am.    I  like oh !  I  do  like  Captain 

Dick  1  It  is  not  that.  There  is  nothing  in  the  world  I  would 
not  do  for  him.  But  it  is  fo  new,  so  strange—  t  frightens 
me  somehow.  To  ask  me  to  suddenly,  to  want  to  marry 
me,  and  then  to  go  away  just  the  same.  When  people  marry 
people  they  stay  at  home  with  them,  don't  they  ?  "  inquirer 
Vera,  vaguely. 

"  Mostly,"  answers  Dora,  unable  to  repress  a  smil:,  "  but 
this  is  an  exceptional  case.  Captain  Dick  would  naturally 
prefer  to  remain  at  home,  but  having  promised  he  is  bound 
to  perform.  You  would  not  have  him  break  his  word,  would 
you  ?  " 

"  I  would  not  have  him  do  anything  but  what  is  noble  and 
right,"  says  Vera  proudly,  "  he  could  not.  If  he  wants  me 
to  marry  him,  I  will  mary  him.  If  he  wants  me  to  go  with 
him,  I  will  go.  If  he  wants  me  to  stay  here  and  wait  for  him, 
I  will  stay.     I  will  do  anything — everything — he  wishes." 

"  A  most  delightful  state  of  wifely  subjection  and  duty. 
Well,  my  dear,  <il  was  a  hard  task,  but  I  have  beaten  it  into 
your  stupid  little  noddle  at  last.  Captain  Ffrench  wants  to 
marry  you  on  the  twenty-third  of  August,  and  the  marriage 
is  to  be  as  much  on  the  quiet  as  possible,  because  imme- 
diately after  he  is  obliged  to  leave  you.  I  was  to  tell  you 
this,  and  you  are  to  send  him  your  answer  under  your  own 
hand  and  seal  That  is  the  case.  And  now,  I  will  leave 
you  to  olgest  it  at  your  leisure,  for  you  still  l<K>k  hall 
dared." 

"^nd  the  letter?" 


A  GIRVS  LErTER, 


157 


"  The  letter  will  keep.  To-morrow  will  do. '  And  then 
■he  goes,  and  Vera  is  alone.  Alone,  with  a  whole  new 
world  breaking  upon  her,  a  world  of  new  thoughts,  h;jpe& 
pU'is,  possibilities,  bliss.  Captain  Dick  wants  to  uiatry  her 
—wants  to  marry  her — this  king  of  men — she,  little  Vera 
Maitinez,  with  the  thin  face,  and  long  arms,  and  cr(»pped 
hair,  and  brown  skin  1  Why,  it  is  wonderful  1  The  prince 
married  Cinderella,  to  be  sure,  but  then  the  fairy  godmothei 
had  been  to  the  f(ire  first,  and  transformed  the  grimy  littld 
cinder-sifter  into  a  lovely  lady.  Ah  !  why  were  the  days  o! 
fairy  godmothers  er.tinct  ?  Why  can  she  not  flash  upon  the 
dazzled  vision  of  her  hero,  on  the  23d  inst.  with  a  complex  > 
ion  of  milk  and  roses,  floating  tresses  of  golden  sheen  (tht 
lady  on  the  bottles  of  Mrs.  Allan's  Hair  Restorer,  is  before 
Vera's  mind's  eye,  as  she  *^hinks  this),  not  a  single  project 
Ing  bone  or  knuckle  visible.  And  he  will  come  back  for  hei 
In  a  little  while — has  not  Dot  said  so — and  the  fairy  tale  wH] 
;nd  as  a  fairy  tale  ought,  after  all  '*  And  they  lived  ha[|>]f 
'nrever  after." 


t. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


A  girl's  letter. 


R.  CHARLTON  comes  down  to  dinner  to-day  for  the 
flrst  time  since  his  illness,  and  looks  keenly  aaoM 
the  table  at  his  step-daughter-in-law  elect.  A 
glow  of  gladness  is  on  the  child's  face,  shining  out  as  a  light 
through  a  transparency.  Her  great  new  happiness  is  there 
for  all  the  world  to  read.  She  blushes  as  she  catches  the  old 
gentleman's  eye — then  laughs  frankly,  and  Mi.  Charlton 
jmiles  in  sympathy  with  that  gay  little  peal. 

"She  is  too  young — too  young,  but  it  w:*  I  be  all  tight  hy 


'.  V 


i    I'I'k        ! 


i$S 


A   GIRDS  LETTER, 


And  by.    If  the  lad  will  but  stay/'  he  thinks,  and  looks  with 
a  sigh  at  the  empty  place. 

After  dinner,  in  the  drawing-room,  he  goes  up  to  Vera  and 
takes  her  hand. 

"  And  this  is  my  little  daughter  ?  "  he  says. 

Shs  looks  at  him,  and  some  womanly  instinct  amakei,  and 
ftUs  her  ey  :s  with  tears.  She  stoops  and  kisses  the  wrinkleJ 
hand. 

"  If  you  will  let  me  be,  sir." 

"  And  Dick  s  answer  is  yes  ?" 

"  It  is  yes,  a  thousand  times  over." 

"  Good !     I  like  that.     Have  you  told  him  so  yet  ?  " 

*'  You  know  I  did  not  see  him,  sir.  I  am  to  write  to 
morrow,  Dora  says." 

"  Ah  i  Dora  says,"  he  smiles,  **  it  will  soon  cease  to  be  m 
Dora  says.  You  are  very  fond  of  Dick,  are  you  not,  little 
Vera  ?  " 

"  Very  fond,  sir,"  Vera  says,  fearlessly  and  frankly,  and 
without  a  blush. 

**  Well,  my  dear,  God  bless  you.  You  must  grow  up  a 
good,  and  clever,  and  accomplished  woman,  so  he  may  be 
proud  of  you.  For  you  are  very  young,  my  little  girH*  to 
be  married." 

"I  know  it,  sir.  Very  young,  very  ignorant,  very  un< 
worthy  to  be  Captain  Dick's  wife." 

*'  I  don't  say  that.  And  time  works  wonders.  A  girl  with 
a  head  shaped  like  this,  ought  to  have  a  brain.  Beauty  is 
very  well — indispensable  almost ;  but  brains  are  well,  too— 
the  combination  is  excellent  in  a  woman.  I  am  sure  you 
will  have  the  b<*auty,  I  think  you  will  have  the  brains.  And 
listen  to  me,  little  Vera — keep  Dick  at  home  when  you  get 
him." 

"  I  mean  to  try,  sir,"  Vera  answers,  half  laughing,  baH 
crying,  '*bul,  oh  1  it  »eeins  so  presumptuous  to  think  o/  hit 
ever  giving  up  anything  to  stay  with  me." 


^V^' 


iHth 
and 


A  Of  Mrs  LETTBk, 


159 


sto 

le  u 
ittle 

and 

P  « 
jrbe 

to 

Ull' 

nth 
r  is 
0 — 
you 
Ind 
get 

liaU 
hit 


'^  I  don't  know  about  that  Don't  be  toi?  modest  A  man 
ihould  stay  with  his  wife.  You  must  make  yourself  so  fasci- 
nating, so  accomplished,  so  channing,  that  he  will  be  unable 
to  leave  you.  You  must  study  hard  and  grow  up  such  a  lady 
as  we  will  all  be  proud  of." 

"  I  will  try — oh,  indeed  I  will  try  I "  Vera  exclaims,  clasp 
ing  her  hands. 

Ambition  is  stirring  within  her.  Mr.  Charlton's  praises 
have  elated  her.  Study,  become  accomplished,  learned, 
clever — ah  1  will  she  not  ? 

That  evening  passes  like  a  dream — in  Vera's  after  life  its 
memory  is  misty  as  a  dream.  The  restlessness  that  usually 
keeps  her  flitting  about  the  room  is  gone ;  she  sits  quite 
still,  her  hands  clasped  behind  her  head,  a  dreamy  smile  on 
her  face,  her  little  high-heeled  shoes  crossed  one  over  the 
other  on  a  hassock.  Dora  is  playing  chess  with  Mr.  Charl- 
ton, as  customary ;  Mrs  Charlton  sits  making  tatting ;  Elea- 
nor is  reading.  Vera  lifts  her  happy  eyes  and  looks  at  her. 
Poor  Nelly  1  she  thinks,  a  great  compassion  filling  her,  how 
much  she  has  lost.  Does  she  realize  it  ?  Surely  not,  or  she 
never  could  sit  there  with  that  quiet  face,  reading  so  steadily. 
To  refuse — deliberately  and  in  cold  blood  to  refuse  Captain 
Dick !  As  long  as  she  lives.  Vera  feels,  she  will  never  be 
able  to  understand  that  ununderstandable  wonder. 

The  steadiness  of  her  gaze  magnetizes  Miss  Charlton. 
She  looks  up  from  her  book,  smiles,  and  comes  towards 
her. 

"  How  quietly  you  sit ;  how  happy  you  look,"  she  sajn. 
"  You  are  not  like  yourself  to-night    What  is  it,  my  Vera  ?  " 

"  I  am  happy,"  Vera  answers,  '*  happy,  happy,  happy  1 
So  happy  that  I  do  not  think  anything  can  ever  give  me  a 
moment's  trouble  again.  I  am  the  very  happiest  girl  in  all 
the  world." 

"Indeed?"  Eleanor  laughs.  "Permit  me  to  cong«ti» 
late  you.     Is  it  indiscreet  to  ask  the  cause  ?  " 


t- 


i6o 


A   ailtVS  LETTEIL 


•*  Ah  f  I  cannot  tell  you ;  it  is  a  secret — yet — but  yo^  wfll 
know  soon." 

"  It  liiast  be  very  soon,  then,  for  I  am  going  away  ot 
Monday." 

Vera  (jpens  her  eyes. 

"  On  Monday  ?     doing  away  from  Charlton  for  ^ood  ?" 

**  For  good      1  hope  you  are  just  a  little  sorry." 

"Oh,  Nelly,  sorry!  indeed,  indeed,  yes  I  Hut  so  icon. 
Next  Monday  ?  Oh,  you  must  not !  Mr.  Charlton  will  nevtt 
consent." 

Eleanor  smiles  a  little  sadly. 

"  That  IS  your  mistake,  my  dear  ;  Mr.  Charlton  has  coo 
lented." 

**  But  this  is  dreadfully  sudden.  Why,  we  were  all  to  stay 
until  September.  What  are  you  going  so  long  before  the 
time  for  ?     Are  you  tired  of  Charlton  ?  " 

"Tired!"  Eleanor  answers,  and  looks  out  at  the  moon- 
tight,  lying  in  broad,  pale  sheets  m  the  grass.  "  No,  little 
Vera,  it  is  not  that.  I  am  going  because  1  must  go.  So  I 
am  not  to  know  this  wonderful  secret  it  seems.  And  Cap- 
tain  Dick  gone,  too  I  "  smiling  down  into  the  eyes  that  droop 
suddenly,  "  and  you  and  he  such  devoted  friends  !  Did  you 
see  him  this  afternoon  ?  " 

**  No,  1  did  not  see  him,"  Vera  answers,  confusedly. 
What  would  Eleanor  say  if  she  knew  ?  How  can  she  sit 
sad  speak  oriiiin  in  that  composed  way  when  she  has  wil- 
foU)  lost  him  forever  ?  Does  she  guess  it  was  only  to  please 
his  step-father  he  asked  her,  and  was  she  too  proud  to  accept 
a  reluctant  lover?  Will  she  not  be  pained,  moi lifted,  hu- 
miliated, when  she  knows  the  truth  ?  Perhaps  it  is  just  as 
well  for  Eleanors  own  sake  she  is  going  on  Monday.  It 
would  be  dreadful  for  her  to  be  here,  and  see  him  maniedto 
somebody  else.  For  she  must  regret  him.  It  is  out  of  th« 
order  of  things  for  her  to  help  it,  and  this  seeming  serenity  if 
bu,^  the  fair  outside  that  covers  a  blighted  heart.    Somethmg 


vay  oa 

0  lOon. 
[1  nevet 

las  COD 

1  to  stay 
fore  the 

5  moon- 
^o,  little 
So  I 
d  Cap- 
iat droop 
{Did  you 

ifusedly. 
she  sit 
has  wil- 
lo  please 
lo  accept 
Ified,  hu- 
just  as 
|day.     It 
lanied  to 
Lt  of  the 
irenity  if 
>methmi 


I 

I 


A   OIMVS  LMTTEM. 


i6i 


Uke  this  goes  through  Vera't  lentimenttl  little  head  in  the 
pause  that  ensues.  Yes,  on  the  whole,  although  the  wiD 
miss  and  regret  Nelly,  it  is  as  well.       n. 

"  I  see  1  am  to  pine  in  ignorance,**  says  Miss  Charlton. 
'*  Well,  I  shall  take  away  a  picture  of  a  radiant  face  at  leu';, 
and  two  blissfal  black  eyes.  How  beautiful  Charlton  looka 
to-night.     I  wonder  if  I  shall  ever  see  it  again  ?  " 

"  Indeed  you  shail  /  "  cries  Vera,  with  emphasis ;  "  often 
and  often  1  I  mean,"  as  Eleanor  looks  at  her  in  surprise^ 
**  that  Mr.  Charlton  will  invite  you  again  next  summer, 
and " 

*'  Mr.  Charlton  will  not  invite  me  next  summer,  my  dear, 
and  I  have  a  tolerably  strong  conviction  that  I  am  looking 
my  last  on  its  green  beauty.  Well  1  it  is  the  inevitable,  and 
at  least  I  am  the  better  for  having  been  here.  Come  and 
sing  for  me  ;  I  like  that  fresh  skylark  voice  of  yours.  I  will 
play.  Do  you  know,  Vera,  you  have  a  very  fine  voice — so 
fine,  that,  properly  cultivated,  you  might  leave  oflf  teaching, 
and  distinguish  yourself  on  the  lyric  stage." 

"  I  don't  want  to  distinguish  myself — in  that  way,"  Vera 
answers,  thinking  how  differently  the  boUs  of  life  are  br^^ak- 
ing  for  her ;  "  but,  all  the  same,  it  shall  be  cultivated,  and  1 
am  glad,  very  glad,  it  is  fine." 

Again  Eleanor  looks  at  her  in  vax\tmt.  She  does  not  un- 
derstand the  girl  this  evening.  What  is  this  new  happiness 
that  has  come  to  her  ?  Has  Mr.  Charlton  offered  to  adopt, 
educate,  and  keep  her  with  him  here  always  ?  And  is  Dora 
to  stay,  too,  as  prime  minister  of  the  household  ?  It  lookf 
like  it,  and  seems  reasonable.  He  Hkes  brightness,  ani 
gayety,  and  youth,  and  pretty  looks,  and  he  is  wealthy  enough 
to  indulge  in  more  unreasonable  whims.  Of  the  dark  doings 
of  last  night  she  knows  nothing.  Hei  mother  is  still  in  a 
state  of  the  blackest,  silentest  sulks ;  no  one  else  is  likely  to 
infonn  her.  So  she  settles  it  in  her  own  mind  that  this  if  *e 
solution,  as  she  strikes  the  first  chord  of  her  accomp9*2imwfit 


l62 


A  GIRVS  LETTER. 


^kS 


ff\%-f 


^oi  a  long  time  that  night  Vera  lies  awake,  thinking  of 
her  niw  felicity  and  of  her  letter.  What  is  she  to  say  to 
Captain  Dick  ?  She  knows  nothing  of  the  forms  that  obtain 
in  love-letters,  and  her  reading,  copious,  light,  and  romantic 
as  it  has  been,  gives  her  very  little  data  to  go  upon.  Sii 
Folko  is  a  married  man  when  the  admiring  reader  is  fijst  in- 
troduced to  him,  consequently  has  no  need  to  indite  tender 
epistles.  Ivanhoe  never  corresponded  with  either  Rebecca 
or  Rowena,  so  far  as  Vera  can  remember — very  probably  did 
not  know  how  to  write  indeed ;  and  the  Corsair,  in  all  his 
piratical  meanderings,  never  so  much  as  sent  a  single  postal- 
card  to  the  drooping  Medora!  As  it  chances.  Vera  has 
written  but  two  letters  in  her  life,  and  these  of  the  briefest, 
to  the  Miss  Scudder  of  her  story.  She  has  a  melancholy 
consciousness  that  she  does  not  shine  on  paper,  that  neither 
her  orthography,  chirography,  nor  syntax,  is  above  rttproach. 
But  then  there  is  Dora — there  is  always  Dora — Dora  will 
know  what  to  say,  and  how  to  spell  the  words  of  three 
syllables,  if  she  has  to  tackle  any  of  these  staggerers; 
and  with  this  blissful  sense  of  refuge  she  drops  at  last  to 
sleep. 

But,  to  her  surprise  and  indignation,  Dora  flatly  refuses 
next  day. 

"  Write  your  own  love-letters,  my  dear,"  she  says,  coolly  ; 
*'  it  is  a  good  rule  never  to  interfere  between  man  and  wife 
—even  if  they  are  only  man  and  wife- elect.  One  never  gets 
thanks  in  the  end.  Here  is  a  nice  sheet  of  thick  white 
paper,  a  pen  I  can  recommend,  and  a  bottle  of  ink  as  black 
as  your  eyes.  And  here  is  a  dictionary — I  know  ih(U  is  in- 
dispensable, you  poor  little  ignoramus.  Now  begin.  Only 
T  shall  expect  to  see  this  famocs  production  when  done.  In 
the  annalf  of  sentimental  Hterature  I  am  quite  sure  it  will 
stand  alone." 

Dora  is  obdurate,  deaf  to  all  pleading,  Xo  the  great  disgui* 
of  the  letter-writer.     Thrown  thus  upon  her  own  resoiu-ces 


A  GIRDS  LETTER. 


103 


dngof 
say  to 

obtain 

»maiitic 

>n.    S'u 

first  in- 
tender 

jlebecca 

ably  did 

\  ail  his 

>  postal- 

rera  has 

briefest, 

lancholy 

t  neither 

cproach. 

Dora  will 

of  three 

tggerers ; 
last  to 

y  refutes 

,  coolly ; 
and  wife 
lever  gets 
,ck  white 
as  black 
hoi  is  in- 
n.     Only 
one.     In 
■ire  it  will 

jat  disgust 
resources 


Vera,  after  sitting  for  a  while  disconsolate,  plucks  ap  btait 
of  grace,  dips  her  pen  in  the  bk,  and  begins : 

**  Craelton  Plao,  A«g  II,  l8— — 
•*  DiAa  Captain  EHoc  :*• 

That  much  glides  oflf  smoothly  enough.  After  all  people 
make  a  great  deal  more  fuss  about  letter-writing  than  it  is 
(Torth.  Vera  feels  she  would  not  accept  help  now  if  it  was 
offered — she  will  do  it  alone  or  perish — with  an  occasional 
peep  irto  the  big  dictionary.  So  knitting  her  brows  into  a 
reflective  scowl,  she  gojs  on,  murmuring  her  sentences  half 
aloud  as  she  writes  : 

"Dear  Captain  Dickx  DormhuMktd  mt  tomarryyoa.  I  Iflet 
you  very  much,  I  think  it  wonld  be  iplcndid  to  be  yonr  wife.  I  am  ttry 
Much  obliged  to  yon  for  wonting  me ^ 

**  It  sounds  jerky,  somehow,"  says  Vera,  pansing  discon- 
tentedly, '*  and  it  has  too  many  I's.  I  never  let  Lex  pot 
three  of  his  I's  so  close  together  as  that.  Dott  you  are 
laughing ! " 

Dora  is  holding  a  book  up  before  her  face,  and  b  shaking 
behind  it.  At  this  accusing  cry  she  looks  over  the  top  to 
protest  she  never  was  more  serious  in  her  life,  but  in  the 
effort  explodes  into  a  perfect  shout.  Vera  lays  down  her 
pen  in  deepest  dudgeon. 

"If  you  can  do  better,  why  don't  you  come  and  do  it? 
When  a  person  refuses  to  help  another  person,  and  then  can 
find  nothing  better  to  do  than  sit  and  laugh " 

"  It — it  is  lovely ! "  gasps  Dora,  with  tears  in  her  eyes. 
"  Did  I  not  say  it  would  be  unique  ?  To  interfere  with  that 
letter  would  be  to  paint  the  lily.  Oh  I  go  on — go  on !  I 
im  much  obliged  to  you  for  asking  ro-.* ! '  Oh,  my  tide  1  I 
shall  die  if  I  laugh  anj  more." 

"Isn't  that  right?"     inquires  Vera,  suspiciously     **! 
much  oblip;ed  to  him,  and  why  s'lonl  in't  1  sav  ^o  ?  * 


f>.» 


i     ! 


164 


A  GIRDS  LMTTBM, 


**  Wlij,  fnd«ed  ?   Oh,  proceed — ^I  promiie  not  to  intamiiA 


M 


more; 

Vera  compresses  her  lips.  She  feels  that  this  is  hard  to 
bear,  and  would  scratch  out  the  much  obliged,  if  she  knew 
what  to  put  in  its  place.     But  she  does  i  .ot 

*'  Yon  might  lutv«  knocked  me  down  with  a  ftatJUr  when  Dot  told 
me.  The  idea  of  being  married  to  you^  or  anybody.  Why,  I  nerer 
thought  of  such  a  thing.  And  you  must  see  so  many  ladies  old*r  and 
ialUr^  and  ever  so  m^izV, prettier  than  met  I  cannot  for  the  life  of  om 
see  what  you  want  nu  for.  But  I  would  rather  xazxry  you  than  anybody 
in  the  world.  And  I  think  Ffrench  a  beautiful  name.  V6ronica  Mary 
Martinez  Ffrtnth  1  Does  it  not  sound  kind  of  rich  and  imposing  ?  Bat 
Mrs.  Captain  Richard  Ffrench — tkat  is  better  still.  And  always  to  liv« 
here  (Dot  says  I  shall;,  why  it  will  be  just  like  heaven.  At  l«aat,  I 
■appose,  that  is  irreverent,  but  xi  will  be  a  sort  of  paradise  on  earth — 
only  I  wish  you  were  not  going  away — it  seems  such  a  shame  just  to  get 
married,  and  then  start  off  on  a  tour  with  Dr.  Englehart,  and  leave  nu 
behind.  Conlda't  /  go  to  Honduras,  too?  But  there  1  I  know  I 
would  be  in  the  way,  and  I  want  to  stay  at  home  besides,  and  study  ever 
■o  hard,  so  that  you  may  not  be  ashamed  of  me  when  I  grow  up  ?  The 
Idea  of  a  gentleman's  wife  growing  up.     Is  it  not  funny  "i '' 


I  I 


Vera  stops,  making  insane  plunges  at  the  inkstand,  her 
eyes  on  the  sheet,  all  in  a  glow  of  inky  inspiration.  Dora, 
indeed  I  She  would  like  to  catch  herself  asking  Dora  to 
help  her  with  her  letters  after  this.  Why,  it  is  as  easy  ai 
talking.         *« 

*'  Yoa  must  tell  me  when  you  come  down  about  the  things  you  woild 
fUae  me  to  study  hardest  when  you  are  away.  I  hope  you  will  not  be 
f/r^  particular  about  botany  and  algebra— I  ^i// arithmetic,  and  I  know 
C  never  can  master  nine  times.  Oh  !  I  nearly  forgot  I  I  was  dread- 
fully  sorry  you  went  away  without  speaking  to  me,  but  I  was  asleep  up- 
stairs, and  Dot  never  woke  me.  And  now  I  shall  cnly  see  you  enei 
before  you  go,  and  then  we  will  '"»e  in  such  a  fuss  getting  married  th&t 
we  won't  have  time  to  say  a  single  thing.  What  a  lovely  chat  we  had 
•t  Shaddeck  Light  night  before  last,  hadn't  we/  I  shall  always  lev* 
that  little  hous«*.  and  I  mean  to  take  my  books  there  when  you  are  go&fl^ 


■y-'Hi 


A  GIRDS  LETTEM, 


I6S 


lard  to 
I  knew 


)ot  told 

I  nerer 
UUrwA 
fe  of  DM 
anybody 
c«  Mary 
g?  But 
|rs  to  live 
l«Mt,  I 
earth — 
At  to  get 
leave  mi 
know  I 
udynvr 
)?     TlM 


iQ,  ner 
Dora» 
>ora  to 
easy  ai 


tU  flOlld 

not  be 

I  know 
dread* 
sUep  up- 
rou  •nc§ 
ted  th&t 

we  had 
ays  Itnm 
ire  gon<^ 


■M 


1 


•■d  look  after  Dmddy  and  the  reet  of  the  things  til!  yoo  come  back.  I 
49  hope  you  will  come  back  toon.  It  will  be  mwfulfy  looeaoaie  wh« 
yoa  are  gone.** 

Here  Vera  falls  back  in  her  chair,  exhausted,  but  trium- 
phant She  has  filled  three  sides  of  her  sheet  already,  and 
in  her  very  finest  hand.  She  is  doubtful  whether  epistolary 
etiquette  does  not  demand  that  the  fourth  page  be  l^t 
blank,  but  she  will  die  rather  than  ask  Dot 

<<  Done,  dear  ?  "  says  Dora,  coming  over.  **  Let  me  read 
it" 

Vera  yields  it  up  reluctantly.  She  feels  it  is  more  than 
Dora  deserves,  but  there  may  be  some  bad  spelling — she  hat 
not  consulted  Webster — and  it  is  best  it  should  be  as  nearly 
perfect  as  possible.  She  watches  her  sister  jealously  as  she 
reads,  prepared  to  resent  any  symptom  of  unseemly  levity. 
But  Dora  holds  her  risible  faculties  well  in  hand,  and  getf 
through  without  disgracing  herself. 

"  It  is  exquisite,  my  child ;  it  is  all  my  fancy  painted  it. 
Now  I  think  I  would  wind  up,  if  I  were  you ;  let  him  have 
just  enough  to  make  him  wish  there  was  more.'* 

"  I  think  I  have  got  in  pretty  much  everything,*'  says  Vera^ 
musingly.  '<I  must  tell  him  to  excuse  mistakes,  and  to 
write  soon,  and  I  am  his  affectionately.  How  do  you  spell 
aif-ec-tion-ate-ly,  Dot  ?     I  am  sure  of  it  all  but  the  *  shin.'  " 

This  knotty  point  is  got  over,  the  letter  is  finished,  folded, 
enveloped.  Vera  licks  the  gum  with  relish,  and  sticks  it 
with  pride.  Then  she  writes  the  address  in  her  largett, 
Boblest  hand, 

"Captain  R.  C.  Ffrench." 

Wai  there  ever  such  an  idyllic  name  ?  And  the  letter  it 
an  accomplished  fact.  Her  first  real  letter !  her  first  love- 
lett-rl  She  holds  it  from  her,  and  gazes  on  rf  in  that  glow 
of  pnde  and  enthusiastic  rap'^nre  with  which  a  youthful  artist 
gazes  on  his  first  pa;nting — now  in  this  light,  now  in  that 


i66 


A  €IXVS  LMTTMM. 


I        !        ! 


ilfl' 


'! 


n      1 


**  I  ihall  post  this  myself/'  says  Vera,  with  calm  dtceniiiofr 
tion.  ''  No  mortal  hand  shall  be  intrasted  with  it  I  only 
hope  it  may  go  safe.  It  would  be  a  dreadful  thing  if  it  went 
astray.     Are  letters  very  often  lost,  Dot,  on  the  waj  ?  " 

"  Between  St.  Ann's  and  New  York  ?  No,  my  dear 
tlie^  are  not.  And  even  if  they  were,  this  would  be  sure  to 
go — could  not  fail  to  go.  It  is  like  a  sign-board.  I  could 
read  that  ^Ffrench'  if  I  were  at  the  other  end  of  the 
garden." 

'*  A  large,  bold  hand  shows  decision  of  ch;iracter,"  responds 
Vera,  firmly ;  "  and  decision  of  character  I  mean  to  have.  I 
have  a  cramp  in  my  fingers  from  making  those  letters  to 
large  and  inky.  You  might  drive  me  over  this  afternoon, 
Dot ;  it  is  too  hot  and  dusty  for  walking." 

Dora  agrees,  and  Vera,  feeling  the  need  of  relaxation  after 
this  severe  mental  strain,  whistles  to  Nero,  the  house  dog, 
and  challenging  that  black  monster  to  a  race,  they  are  soon 
tearing  up  and  down  the  avenues.  It  is  hot,  she  says,  but 
one  must  have  physical  exercise  after  a  prolonged  course  of 
writing,  else  the  application  might  be  injurious  to  one's 
health.  She  has  read  that  somewhere,  and  means  to  store 
up  all  these  scraps  of  useful  information,  neatly  labelled,  to 
be  kept  until  called  for.  A  very  paragon  of  learning  and 
wisdom,  she  is  resolved,  shall  be  the  future  Mrs.  R.  C. 
Ffrench. 

Four  hoi^  later  the  letter,  big  with  fate,  is  posted,  and  on 
its  way  to  New  York,  vtid  the  lestiny  of  two  people  ii 
3«nled  for  i^Jil  time. 


i 


nKft   DAYS  BEFOME, 


i6r 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


THE   DAYS  B£FORX. 


|ND  now  the  days  fly.     If  each  one  were  fortf  ei^iil 

hours  long  it  would  hardly  be  long  enough,  Dora 
Lightwood  thinks.  For  Vera  they  fly,  too,  but 
then  that  is  a  way  Vera's  days  have  always  had,  only  now 
they  seem  doubly  winged,  and  each  brings  the  eventful 
twenty-tbird  and  Captain  Dick  nearer.  One,  two,  three, 
four — here  is  Monday  and  Eleanor  is  going.  ReaViy  going, 
and  Eleanor's  mamma,  seized  at  the  last  moment  with  a  sec- 
ond attack  of  neuralgia,  is  unable  to  accompany  her — unable 
to  lift  her  tortured  head  from  her  pillow.  Eleanor  must  go 
alone. 

"  Neuralgia  !  "  laughs  Miss  Lightwood,  scornfully.  "  Left 
her  window  open  all  night,  and  the  sudden  change  to  cold, 
etc.  Bah  !  What  an  old  liar  she  is  !  "  Miss  Lightwood  al- 
ways makes  a  point  cf  calling  a  spade  a  spade.  "  She  is 
very  well  off  here,  and  here  she  means  to  stay.  We^l  I  we 
shall  see," 

So  Eleanor  goes  alone,  and  is  kissed  good-by  in  her  sweet' 
est  way  by  Dora,  and  is  driven  to  the  station  by  tliat  most 
dashing  of  little  whips.  Vera  goes  too,  and  clings  to  her  at 
the  last,  tears  in  the  brown  eyes,  wistful,  imploring,  pleading, 
in  the  young  face. 

"  Nelly !  Nelly !  how  sorry  I  am  you  are  going.  Oh  I 
Nelly,  I  thought  and  said  horrid  things  of  you  once.  I  am 
sorry  now  3  sorry,  sorry  I  Forgive  me,  won't  you,  before  yon 
go?" 

*•  Thought  and  said  horrid  things  of  me  ?  Why,  my  pet," 
•ays  Miss  Charlton,  laughing,  *'  what  had  I  done  ?" 


li:.  1 


i  ! 


i68 


I 


Hi 

! 

1 

■; 

1 

•      i 
i 

Inl'l'i      i  ii^ 

1 

■ 
t 

TUM  DAYS  BEFOMM, 


«  Oh  \    I  aiii  a  v.^tchl    A  little  iMul-tempered  wretch  I 
Yon  refu*;«d  Captain  Dick" — ^in  a  whisper  this,  and  the  hot 
face  hiJden — **  acd  I  couldn't  bear  it    And  I  hated  yoo- 
there  I " 

**  My  dear  child  I  how  can  you  possibly  know ** 

**  1  was  in  the  room — ^you  didn't  see  me,  but  I  was,  and  I 
overh  iard.  Wasn't  it  awfid  ?  But  I  didn't  mean  to.  I  told 
him  about  it,  and  he  said  the  loveliest  things  of  you  t  You 
we  not  angry,  are  you  ?  " 

'*  Angry,  dear  ?  Why,  no.  Only  you  must  never  tell  that 
you—that  I ** 

"  I  know — 1  know.  Of  course  not.  And,  Nelly," — she 
has  taken  hold  of  a  button  of  Miss  Charlton's  jacket  and  ii 
twisting  it  round  and  round — "  you  a^e  sure — ^you  are  not 
sorry  now — sorry  you  said  no,  I  mean  ?" 

'*  It  had  to  be  no.  Vera.  It  could  never  possibly  have 
been  anything  else." 

'*  And  you  would  not  take  him  now,  even  if  he  came  and 
offered  again  ?  " 

"No." 

"  You  are  sure  ?  " 

**  I  am  certain."  She  smiles,  but  blushes  a  little,  toa 
**  Why,  what  a  little  inquisitor  it  is  I  How  fond  you  are  of 
Captain  Dick." 

Ah  1  fond.  But  there  is  something  besides  that  fondnesi 
Ui  Vera's  fad^,  as  she  stands  nervously  twisting  the  button. 

"  What  is  it,  pet  ?  "  Eleanor  asks.  **  By  the  way,  1  want 
you  to  say  good-by  for  lae  to  Captain  ^ick  when  he  comes. 
We  are  never  likely  to  meet  again." 

**  Oh !  Eleanor ^ — are  you  not  sorry  ?  " 

**  Yes — no — yes,  I  suppose  so.  He  is  a  gallant  gentle- 
man, and  I  like  him.  Vera,  you  are  trying  to  say  something. 
Why,  how  yau  are  blushing,  child  ! — and  here  is  my  button 
half  off."  She  holds  the  little  destructive  hand.  **  Out  with 
it«  quick  t  there  is  the  last  bell." 


n»  OArs  BEFOtt*. 


109 


wretdil 
the  hot 
i  yott- 


!,  and  I 

I  told 
il    You 

tell  that 

;t  and  il 
are  not 

bly  hare 

une  and 


tie,  toa 
1  are  of 

ondnesf 
utton. 

I  want 
\  comes, 


gentle- 
nething. 

button 
>utwitli 


"in 


Vera  flings  her  arms  around  her  neck,  reg&rdlesi  of  th« 
loungers  on  the  platform,  and  whispers,  with  a  vehement 
kiss : 

"  In  nine  days  /am  to  be  married  to  Captain  Ffrench  I  * 

The  last  bell  is  clanging — Miss  Charlton  has  barely  time 
to  rush  on  board.  There  is  not  another  word  exchanged, 
she  waves  her  hand  from  the  window,  perfectly  speechless 
with  surprise,  and  then  the  train  steams  out,  and  she  is  gone. 
The  first  gap  is  made  in  the  Charlton  summer  circle. 

They  drive  slowly  through  the  'own,  taking  the  post-office 
on  their  way.  What  a  sleepy  Sunday  stillness  reigns — eyer> 
green  lattice  is  shut  on  the  white  front  of  each  small  house, 
no  one  stirs  abroad,  the  wooden  pavements  bhster  in  the 
August  sun.  The  black  wharves  project  into  the  harbor, 
old,  decaying,  with  the  ceaseless  wash  and  fret  of  the  rip- 
pling tide,  slipping  in  and  out  forever  among  their  rotting 
planks.  St.  Ann's,  always  drowsy,  lies  sluggishly  asleep, 
this  warm,  dusty,  midsummer  afternoon. 

A  letter  awaits  Vera — a  note,  rather — in  a  hand  she  knows 
well.  She  tears  it  open  in  a  second,  and  runs  her  eye  over 
its  three  or  four  sentences.  He  has  received  hers.  He  is 
glad  that  she  is  glad.  He  will  do  what  he  can  to  make  hei 
happy.  He  hopes  she  will  never  regret  this  step.  He  will 
be  with  them  by  ten  o'clock  on  Friday,  the  twenty-third.  Dr. 
Englehart  will  accompany  him.  And  he  is  very  affection- 
ately hers,  R.  C.  F. 

It  is  a  disappointing  little  billet — ^it  is  not  in  the  least  what 
Vera  expects.  Such  short  sentences  I  and  so  few  of  them. 
She  could  do  better  herself  I  And  he  is  used  to  writing  let- 
ters, too— has  she  not  seen  them  ? — long,  learned  letters,  full 
of  polysyllabic  words  that  Vera  could  neither  spell  nor  pro- 
nounce if  it  were  ever  so,  letters  that  are  printed  in  stupid 
scientific  quarterlies,  heavier  than  lead.  Such  a  shoity 
scrubby,  unsatisfactory 

**  And  what  does  he  mean  by  regretting  ?  "  she  eriei  ont 


"I 

|Hf  ' 

1 

H 

1 

IB 

■ifHi 

1 

m 

170 


TJf£  DAYS  BEFOME. 


resentfully :  ''  as  if  I  was  ever  likely  to  regret.  When  I  told 
him,  too,  I  was  delighxed.  I  think  he  might  Tery  well  hav« 
made  it  a  whole  page.  Such  a  nice,  long  letter  as  I  sent 
hlni.  And  the  very  first  he  has  ever  written  to  me  1  I  must 
•ay " 

**  No,  you  mustn't.  Captain  Ffrench  is  very  busy  Just  now, 
remember,"  says  Dora,  smoothly,  *'  and  has  very  little  time 
f  :<  ^5tter- writing.  He  will  not  fail  on  the  twenty-third — that 
?'•  ihf»  main  thing." 

<"  Tail !  "  repeats  Vera,  staring;  but  Dora  only  laughs,  and 
whips  Ut>  the  ponies. 

There  is  silence.  Vera  feels  aggrieved,  and  looks  it.  Thui 
is  not  the  sort  of  thing  she  has  expected  at  all.  If  this  is 
what  they  call  a  love-letter,  then  rhe  doesn't  think  much  o{ 
love-letters.  If  he  means  to  send  her  six  mean,  stingy  sen- 
tences every  time  he  writes  from  Honduras,  he  may  keep 
them  !  She  will  tell  him  her  opinion  of  this  effusion  the 
next  time  they  meet. 

But  though  Captain  Ffrench' s  first  note  to  his  bride-elect 
is  as  brief  and  non-committal  as  note  well  can  be,  he  writes 
to  his  step-iirther,  on  the  same  subject,  a  sufficiently  lengthy 
epistle. 

*'  The  more  i  think  of  it,"  he  says,  "  the  more  abundantly  convinced 
am  I  tiia^  this  saciifice  is  at  once  absurd  and  unnecessary.  In  the  first 
moments  of  I  ewildernient,  and  overwhelmed  by  the  tears  and  reproaches 
of  Miss  Lightwood,  I  was  all  at  sea,  but  now  I  know,  I  feel,  when  it  ii 
tco  late  to  draw  back,  that  this  Quixotic  marriage  is  utt'*  'y  nonsensicaL 
The  accident  of  Ve**a  a  having  remained  a  night  at  Shaddeck  with  me 
could  never  spoil  her  tiiture  life  as  this  njirriage  may — as  this  marriage 
must.  What  does  she  know  of  herself — of  marriage  ?  She  is  a  girl  in 
fears,  a  b;:be  in  knowledge  of  the  world.  In  the:  time  that  is  to  coma 
she  may  bitterly  rue  this  union,  into  which  accident  and  woman's  prudery 
are  driving  me.  Of  myself  I  say  little.  In  the  future,  whatever  I  cas 
do  to  make  her  happy  I  trust  I  shall  do.  To  like  her  as  a  child  is  easy, 
to  love  her  as  a  woman  may  be  impossible.  Who  is  to  foretell  what 
kind  of  woman  any  given  girl  of  sixteen  may  make  ?    I  ^«Te  no  more  wish 


TltE  DAYS   fEFOME. 


m 


to  nalfice  my  life  to  a  icniplt  of  propdety  than  other  bmb,  tmt  lutiriB| 
pledged  myself  to  her  sifter,  at  any  cost  to  myself,  I  shall  keep  my  wor-i 
**  During  the  term  of  my  absence,  it  becomes  a  simple  matter  of  ne« 
ccssity  that  Vera  shall  remain  under  your  care,  either  i  *  Charlton  vrith  a 
competent  governess,  or  some  good  school.  I  shoul  '  itnrally  prefer  • 
convent,  as  we  are  both  Catholics.  As  you  are  o^.  of  the  chief  ad- 
vocates of  the  marriage,  I  have  no  hesitation  in  making  this  claim  upon 
you.  Vera  must  be  your  exclusive  charge  until  siy  return.  When  that 
return  may  be,  it  is  impossible  exactly  to  say,  and  if  in  the  chapter  dl 
accidents  1  should  never  return  at  all,  I  appeal  to  your  generosity  to  pro* 
vide  for  the  poor  child's  life.  That  non-return  would  probably  be  the 
best  thing  that  could  befall ;  it  would  give  her  back  her  freedom  and  tbf 
average  chance  at  least  of  hapniness  with  a  husband  of  her  own  choke.** 

Mr.  Charlton  reads  this  ^tter  with  compressed  lips  and 
angry  eyes.  He  usun 'y  oas3es  his  correspondence  of  late 
over  to  Miss  Lightwco "  -he  has  got  into  a  way  of  making 
her  his  amanuensis,  ^  nt  for  obvious  reasons  he  says  nothing 
of  this.  He  locks  ii  up  in  his  desk,  and  does  not  answer  it 
So  after  all  the  headstrong,  obstinate  fool  is  going.  Wife  or 
no  wife  he  will  keep  his  word  to  the  expedition  and  start  for 
Honduras.  Since  it  must  be  so,  he  might  as  well  have  gone 
free  as  fettered — so  far  as  Mr.  Charlton  is  concerned  :he  re 
suit  will  be  the  same.  He  chooses  Englehart  and  Central 
America  instead  of  his  step-father  and  Charlton.  He  must 
abide  by  that  choice.  Fortunes,  as  a  rule,  do  not  gc  begging ; 
he  will  force  no  man  to  be  his  heir. 

But  he  loves  the  lad — oh !  he  loves  him,  and  it  is  hanU 
It  is  hard  to  let  him  go,  hard  to  feel  he  may  never  look  in 
his  face  again,  hard  to  feel  that  his  affection  is  unreturned. 
He  covers  his  face  with  a  sort  of  groan.  He  is  an  eld  man, 
he  grows  frail  fast,  he  has  counted  on  Dick  as  the  prop  of  his 
last  years.  Now  those  years  m'^st  be  passed  alone — not  even 
a  wife  can  hold  the  boy  back  Well !  well  1  at  least  if  he 
cannot  conin^and  his  obedience,  he  can  make  him  pay  the 
per  of  his  self-\vill.  Keep,  and  provide  for  Vera.  Yc% 
he  i      ^dy  enough  to  do  that ;  it  wi"  be  a  pleasure,  a  com 


I"{|!^?-'i      ! 


17« 


THE  DAYS  BEPORE. 


fort,  «u  keep  ssmething  young  and  bright  about  him,  and  ht 
is  1  ?ady  to  acknowledge  her  claim ;  but  no  one  can  fill  hi^ 
wayward  step-son's  place,  no  one  ever  can  or  will. 

**  Has  Captain  Ffrench  written  to  Mr.  Charlton  ?  "  Doia 
tusks,  one  day,  as  Mr.  Charlton  remains  moodily  silent 
"  He  f»ent  Vera  two  or  three  lines  simply  to  say  he  would  be 
here  with  Dr.  Englehart  at  ten  en  Friday  morning,  but  not  a 
word  of  his  future  intentions.  And  for  Vera's  sake  I  am  aox- 
ious  to  know  whether  he  means  to  go  or  stay." 

"•*  He  means  to  go,"  is  the  gloomy  answer. 

"  And  Vera,  sir  ?  " 

"  Vera  is  my  care ;  she  remains  with  me,  of  course.  She 
must  have  a  governess,  and  spend  the  next  two  years  in  hard 
•tudy.  She  will  be  over  eighteen  then,  and  a  young  woman 
^et  us  hope  a  clever  and  accomplished  one — amiable  I  am 
sure  she  will  be,  and  good.  His  absence — confound  him  I — 
will  not  extend  over  that  period.  Dick  is  a  good-tempered 
fellow  as  ever  breathed,  but  as  pig-headed  as  the  majority 
when  he  sets  his  mind  on  a  thing.  And  he  seems  to  consid' 
er  it  a  question  of  honor  here,"  says  Mr.  Charlton,  trying,  in 
spite  of  himself,  to  make  the  best  of  it  to  a  third  party. 

Dora  sits  silently,  playing  nervously  with  her  watch-chain, 
whidi,  with  its  essential  appendage,  is  a  recent  and  expensive 
present  from  her  host. 

"  You  n^ed  have  no  fears  for  Vera,  my  dear  Dora,"  he 
goes  on ;  ^'  it  shall  be  at  once  my  happiness  and  my  duty  to 
provide  foi  her.  I  am  glad  she  is  to  remain.  Charlton  will 
be  lonely  enough  soon.  Heaven  knows." 

"  It  is  not  that,  sir,"  Dora  says,  and  covers  her  face  with 
her  hands.  "  I  am  selfish — I  was  thinking  of  myself.  She  is 
all  I  have — we  two  are  so  utterly  alone ;  and  when  1  go  back 

to  the  old  life  and  leave  her  here "     She  breaks  down, 

and  lifts  two  lovely,  streaming  eyes.     "  Oh,  forgive  ine  1 "  she 

sobs.     "  What  will  you  think  of  me  ?    But — but " 

.  Mr.  Cbarltcn  is  mo^ed  to  the  depths  of  his  genial,  kindif 


raE  DAYS  BSFOMM. 


17% 


,  and  In 
a  fill  hit 

•  Doia 
f  silent 
vo\\\d  be 
>ut  not  a 
91x1  anx' 


se.  She 
s  in  hard 
g  woman 
ible  I  am 
1  him  1 — 
tempered 
majority 
o  consid' 
trying,  in 
ty. 

ch-chain, 
xpensive 

)ora,"  he 
y  duty  to 
riton  will 

face  with 

She  is 

.  go  back 

ks  down, 

Ine!"  sha 

il,  kindiy 


:;fi 


old  heart  A  poor  little  woman  in  tears  it  alwayt,  he  hold^ 
a  pathetic  sight ,  a  pretty  linh  woman  in  tears  is  tomethin| 
k>  subjugate  the  universe.  But  he  never  quite  knows  whal 
lo  say  on  these  supreme  occasions. 

**  I  have  known  so  little  pleasure,  so  little  iiappiness  in 
my  short  life,"  sobs  Dora,  behind  a  perfumed  bit  of  lace  and 
lawn — very  well  for  this  sort  of  thing,  but  ridiculous  if  taken 
m  connection  with  a  cold  in  the  head.  **  It  has  been  all 
work,  work,  work,  since  the  cruel  war  that  robbed  us  of  every- 
thing. And  now  that  I  have  known  Charlton  andyoUf  sir — — '" 
Sobs  choke  her  utterance — language  fails. 

This  is  flattering — Mr.  Charlton  feels  it  so.  His  atfumr 
propre  has  just  received  a  mortal  wound — the  artless  con- 
fession  between  the  flowing  tears  of  lovely  woman  is  as  li 
soothing  salve.  And  she  is  so  pretty — crying  does  not  spoil 
Dora,  nor  redden  the  point  of  her  pretty  nose.  If  it  did  you 
may  be  sure  Miss  Lightwood  would  give  idle  tears  a  wide 
berth.  She  is  so  pretty,  so  forlorn,  so  young,  so — so  every- 
thing that  can  addle  the  brain  of  a  good-hearted,  simple- 
souled  old  gentleman.  He  rises  and  bends  above  her, 
deeply  moved,  and  tries  to  take  away  the  dampened  scrap 
of  handkerchief  from  before  the  pale,  tear-wet  face. 

"  Dora  I  my  dear  Dora — my  dear  child,  don't — I  beg  of 
you,  don't.  Why  go  at  all  ?  Charlton  is  a  large  house,  and 
I  am  a  very  lonely  man.  Stay  with  your  sister,  stay  with  her 
always,  stay  with  me.  She  will  i^eed  you — /  will  need  you, 
the  house  will  need  you.  Stay  v/ith  me  a* — as  ray  daugh- 
ter.'' 

Miss  Lightwood  starts  to  her  feet  as  if  svjng.  Two  blue, 
soft,  tearful,  sad,  reproachful  eyes  look  at  him  a  moment* 
"  As  your  daughter?"    murmurs  a  chv.  king  voice  ;  "and  I 

-  -in  my  madness,  have No,  no,  ic  can  never  be  !  "  And 

then  she  breaks  from  him  with  an  inarticulate  soboing  sound, 
and  rushes  out  of  the  room,  and  upstairs,  and  into  her  own. 

•*  And  if  thai  does  net  open  his  nonsensicai  old  eyes,* 


i'  '  iM 


174 


rM£  DAYS  BEFORE, 


»,; 


KiK  .  /■ 


■ajs  Miss  Lightwood,  briskly,  going  over  to  the  glasi  and 
adjusting  her  front  frizzes,  ''I  will  speak  a  little  plainef 
next  time." 

<*  And  be  sure  it  has  a  tail — train,  I  incvn — at  least  one 
yard  long — not  a  finger-length  less,  M^s.  Jones,  and  .nake 
the  T^aist  as  puffy  as  you  can,  so  that  I  may  lOok  as  if  I  had 
a  tendency  to  embonpoint — which  I  haven't.  And  as  1  ara 
not  to  have  a  bustle,  my  sister  says,  I  want  you  to  fa  some 
arrangement  of  stiff  muslin  that  will  do  instead — you  under- 
stand ?  But  whatever  else  you  do,  make  the  train  a — full-* 
yard — long." 

Thus  emphatically  Miss  Vera  Martinez  to  the  dressmaker. 
She  stands  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  solemnly  gesticulating, 
her  face  wearing  all  the  gravity — the  seriousness  of  the 
point  at  issue  demands.  A  sh«>''>  ly  pile  of  creamy  white  silk 
ties  near  the  dress  in  question,  to  which  the  yard-long  tail  is 
to  be  appended  and  is  Miss  Martinez's  wedding  robe. 

"And  do  not  fail  us  on  Thursday  afternoon,"  says  a 
second  voice,  sharp,  and  a  trifle  imperious ;  ''  the — the  din- 
ner-party occurs  on  Friday,  and  there  must  not  be  the 
slightest  delay,  Mrs.  Jones.  We  will  drive  over  about  four 
on  Thursday,  and  fetch  it  away." 

*'  There  shall  be  no  delay.  Miss  Light  wood,  I  never  fail 
my  customers,  and  I  have  no  other  work  just  now." 

'Mf  thisr-party  dress,  is  a  success  you  shall  have  an 
abundance  of  work  in  future,  Mrs.  Jones — I  can  piomise  you 
tliat,"  says  Miss  Light  wood,  graciously,  drawing  on  her  gloves, 
*^  Come,  Vera.  Do  not  forget  my  instructions  about  the 
point-lace  trimming,  Mrs.  Jones." 

"  And  do  not  forget  my  instructions  aoout  the  train,  Mrs. 
Jon  s,"  says  the  more  youthful  voice,  **  a  yard  Irng.  Mind 
that ! " 

She  holds  up  an  admonitory  fii.ger. 

*'  One — yard— long  I  "  she  reiterates,  and  then  goes  aftes 
her  sister  o»it  to  where  the  pony-phaeton  stands. 


m4 


<u< 


J**^ 


TBB  DA  rs  BBTOKA. 


«r» 


(lasf  and 
(  plain  ef 

least  one 
id  .nake 
i  if  I  had 
as  I  ara 
fa  some 
u  under- 
a—full— 

ssmaker. 
culating, 
s  of  the 
vhite  silk 
ng  tail  ia 
e. 

'  says  a 
-the  din- 
:  be  the 
bout  four 

never  fail 

have  an 
niise  yott 
er  gloves, 
kbout  th« 

ain,  Mrs. 
Mind 


oea  aftcf 


i4>f>i 


•*  And  I  hope  to  goodness  she  wont  make  a  botch  of  It,' 
■ays  Dora,  taking  the  reins.  "  Put  tot  your  faith  in  country 
dressmakers.  If  there  only  had  been  time  to  order  it  from 
Madame  Le  Brun's,"  with  a  regretful  sigh. 

•'  And  I  hope  to  goodness  she  wont  shorten  it  behind, 
lays  Vera.  "  Tlie  rest  may  go  ;  but,  fit  or  no  6t,  a  train  to 
it  I  must  have.  To  think  of  a  white  silk  dress  like  wrinkled 
ikins  on  scaided  milk,  as  somebody  says  somewhere,  with  a. 
train  trailing  a  full  yard  behind  1 "  says  Vera,  in  a  sort  ol 
tolemn  rapture. 

"  Only  four  days  now — how  they  do  fly  I  I  told  Harriet 
before  I  came  out,  Vera." 

'<  Yes  ? "  says  Vera,  giving  a  smart  slap  to  a  musquito 
tliat  alights  on  her  nose  ;  **  and  7  hat  did  she  say  ?  Did  she 
snap  your  head  off?  " 

Harriet  is  the  Charlton  househeeper,  a  maiden  Udy  of 
uncertain  age  and  temper,  and  not  a  person  to  have  house 
hold  secrets  from. 

'*  Not  exactly.  She  was  snappish,  though,  as  usual,  and 
grumbled  about  the  shortness  of  the  time,  and  the  length  of 
the  coming  breakfast  Vera,  I  shall  send  that  old  maid 
about  her  business  one  of  these  da/?." 

"  You  will  I  "  says  Vera.  "  Upon  my  word  I  You  had 
better  wait  until  Mr.  Charlton  can  fill  her  place,  I  think.'* 

"  Mr.  Charlton  has  filled  her  place,  my  dear. " 

"  Has  he  ?  Who  is  the  new  one  ?  I  feel  interested  natu- 
rally— a  houuekeeper  can  make  things  dreadfully  unpleasant 
when  she  likes.     Another  old  maid?"  «^ 

"  No — o — not  exactly — getting  along  though.  The  new 
housekeeper  will  be  a  married  lady,  Vera,"  says  Dora,  and 
laughs.  "  I  think  you  will  like  her.  It  was  I  who  recom- 
mended her  to  Mr.  Charlton'?  notice.  But  it  iii  a  secret  yet 
—you  are  not  to  say  a  word  to  him  pr  any  one." 

"  When  is  she  coming  ?  " 

'  Well— thj.t  i3  not  qiiitt^   if'cided    either.     But  thii   fwJ 


.'/i7?"~" 


ii-  li' 


■'   i'ii 


11^' 


I  ! 


|;.  "If 


•  if 


/.; 


'.  ■111 


li 


5  -. 


il 


if6 


THE  DAYS  BEFORE. 


some  tinie,  for  certain.  I  think  Harriet  will  not  be  the  onl]^ 
old  woman  in  Charlton  her  advent  will  astonish.'  Dora 
laugCis  again  at  some  inward  joke. 

"  I  wonder  when   Mrs.    Charlton  means   to  go  ? "  sajra 

Vera,  appositely  enough. 

'*  Not  a  day  sooner  than  she  is  obliged.  Nasty  ol-;!  ihing 
— she  is  exactly  like  an  over-fed  tabby  cat.  The  idea  of  hei 
pretending  neuralgia,  and  Mr.  Charlton  taking  it  in  good 
faith,  until  I  undeceived  him.  I  mean  to  tell  her  on  Thurs- 
day evening." 

"  About  the  housekeeper  ?  " 

"  No ;  about  your  wedding.  How  furious  she  will  be, 
and  how  she  will  try  to  hide  it,  and  what  a  death's-head 
stare  and  smile  she  will  give  me.  I  expect  to  enjoy  it.  She 
made  so  sure  of  getting  that  poor  Dick  for  a  son-in-law.  By 
the  way,  have  you  answered  his  letter,  Vera  ?  " 

"  I  would  not  demean  myself  by  answering  such  a  scrubby 
little  affair,"  answers  Vera,  with  dignity.  "  I  never  wilt 
write  to  him  if  he  sends  me  such  notes  from  Honduras,  and 
BO  I  mean  to  tell  him.  Here  we  are,  and  there  is  Mr. 
Charlton  waiting  for  us." 

Mr.  Charlton  is  always  waiting  for  them  of  late,  for  Dora, 
at  least,  and  within  the  last  two  days  seems  to  have  ascended 
into  the  rosy  realms  of  bliss.  Perhaps  it  is  the  prospect  of  a 
wedding  thatU>rightens  him,  perhaps  it  is  the  joy  of  speedy 
emancipation  from  the  iron  rule  of  Harriet — at  all  events 
the  change  is  there.  And  Mrs.  Charlton  at  her  window, 
like  an  elderly  Sister  Anne  on  her  watch-tctwer,  glooms  down 
upon  them,  and  has  a  vague  feeling  that  something  is  gaing 
cn  from  which  she  is  excluded.  Mr.  Charlton  is  as  plastic 
wax  in  the  hands  of  Dora  Lightwood ;  there  is  no  vagueness 
about  that,  at  least,  and  his  infatuation  bodes  ill  for  her  pro- 
longed stay  at  Charlton. 

One,  two,  three — the  bright  days  fly.  It  is  Thursday,  and 
the  eve  of  the  wedding.     Vera  gets  up  early,  but  that  is  onif 


w 


THE  DAYS  BEFORE. 


177 


le  only 
Don 


11 


says 


\  ihing 
,  of  hei 
1  good 
Thurs- 


ill  be, 

I's-head 
t.  She 
wr.    By 

icrubby 
;r  will 
as,  and 
is  Mr. 

Dora, 
cended 
ct  of  a 
speedy 
events 
indow, 
s  down 
s  going 
plastic 
^enesi 
er  pro- 
ay,  and 

is  onif 


.;^^ 


of  Veia's  virtues.  To-morrow  Captain  Dick  will  come — to- 
morrow is  her  wedding-day — to-morrow  she  will  see  him, 
speak  to  him,  belong  to  him  her  whole  life  long.  The 
thought  is  rapturous.  And  how  lucky  the  weather  is  fine- 
quite  "  queen's  weather  " — not  a  cloud  in  the  sky.  Vera 
feels  it  would  go  near  to  break  her  heart  to  be  married  in  a 
rain-storm.  Friday  is  an  ominous  day,  an  unfashionable 
day,  an  out-of-the-way  sort  of  day  to  be  married  on.  Cap- 
tain Dick  ought  to  have  known  better  than  to  select  it,  but 
men  are  dreadfully  obtuse  about  matrimonial  mat  ^rs.  So 
that  the  priest,  and  the  bride,  and  the  bridegroom  ^^jfe  there, 
they  actually  seem  to  think  oiher  things  secondary.  Vera's 
state  is  not  one  of  unalloyed  bliss.  Captain  Dick  is  going 
away ;  it  may  rain ;  there  is  never  any  trusting  the  weather 
at  picnics  or  weddings.  And  she  has  her  doubts  about  that 
train ;  if  Mrs.  Jones,  possessed  by  some  spirit  malignant, 
should  curtail  it.  Such  things  have  been  known.  Harriet, 
too,  is  still  grumbling  about  the  breakfast.  No  change  in  her 
own  appearance  has  taken  place.  Bones  and  sallownejss 
arc  precisely  as  they  were  ;  her  hair  has  not  grown  percep- 
tibly longer ;  her  form  has  not  assumed  any  observable  re- 
dundancy ;  she  is  neither  handsomer,  taller,  plumper,  wiser 
than  if  to-morrow  were  not  her  wedding-day.  She  is  afraid, 
seriously  afraid,  Captain  Dick  may  be  disappointed.  He 
must  have  seen  very  many  pretty  women  lately.  She  knows 
what  sort  of  faces  are  to  be  seen  on  the  streets  of  New 
York ;  it  will  be  a  crushing  thing  if  he  looks  disappointed. 
Vera's  musings  run  something  in  this  way.  Of  the  real 
seriousness,  of  the  awful  life-long  nature  of  the  step  she  is 
taking,  she  thinks  not  at  all.  She  is  to  be  married  to  Cap- 
tain Dick  ;  she  likes  that.  She  would  like  to  go  wandering 
with  him  over  the  world — up  among  the  icebergs,  down 
ftmong  the  cocoa-nut  grove?,  to  **  Sail  the  seas  over,"  to  see 
foreign  parts,  to  be  wrecked  with  him  on  desert  islands,  and 
hvjp  in  nice  little  huts,  and  eat  breadfruit  and  yaius  (Vera 


i/S 


THE  DAYS  BEFORE, 


/if.    -«^ 


■  ^  m 


r\ 


rfi:'* 


s^\ 


1 
1 


7fh 


^^1 


!!|| ; 


rather  cor  founds  this  fruit  witi  small  sugar-cured  portioni 
of  pig,  hung  up  in  yellow  bags  «utside  of  groceries)  and 
dried  grai)es,  and  bring  up  goats  in  the  way  they  should  go, 
and  have  a  lovely  time  all  by  themselves,  in  some  ericrald 
isle  of  the  Pacific. 

Vague,  foolish,  romantic,  nonsensical,  are  all  Vera'i 
dreams ;  but  always,  clear  and  bright,  strong,  noble,  tall, 
upright,  handsome,  peerless,  her  hero  stands,  the  centrai 
figure.  Go  where  she  will,  Vera  knows  she  will  never  se« 
his  like. 

Breakfast  time  comes  ;  luncheon  comes  ;  afternoon  comes 
Harriet's  brow  is  lowering  ;  Mr.  Charlton  looks  fidgety  and 
nervous ;  Vera's  pulses  thrill  and  flutter.  Dora  alone  is 
calm,  intrepid,  cool  of  head,  steady  of  pulse,  clear  of  eye, 
equal  to  any  fate.  No  one  of  the  household  knows  except 
the  aforesaid  Harriet,  whose  gloomy  forte  is  secrecy.  No 
one  outside  the  household  knows,  except  Father  Damer, 
pastor  of  the  little  white  church  of  the  Assumption,  on  the 
hill,  and  with  him  silence  is  duty.  Dora  professes  no  relig 
ion  whatever  in  the  frankest  manner,  but  Vera  is  a  Cuban, 
and  a  devout  Uttle  daughter  of  Mother  Church,  and  jealously 
insists  on  having  her  nuptial  mass,  and  all  the  bridal  bless- 
ings father  Damer  can  bestow.  Nothing  further  has  been 
heard  fit>m  the  bridegroom,  but  he  will  not  fail — no  one  has 
ever  known  the  ex-cavalry  captain  to  fail  at  tlie  post  of  duty 
or  danger.  .This  is  both. 

At  four,  precisely,  the  pony  phaeton  draws  up  in  front  of 
Mrs.  Jones'  front  door.  The  dress  is  finished,  tne  train— 
V^era  gives  one  terrified  glance  that  changes  slowly  to  ec- 
stasy as  it  is  spread  out  before  her — it  is  every  inch  tha 
train.  She  draws  a  long  brea*h  of  relief,  and  sits  down  on  a 
chair,  as  though  this  realization  of  all  the  dreams  of  her  life 
was  too  much  for  her.  - 

"It  has  preyed  on  my  mind,"  she  says,  faintly,  "it  has 
preyed    or    my  mind    to    that   extent — Dot,  you  know   J 


I 


I 


TME  DAYS   BEFORE, 


179 


portioni 
les)  and 
ould  go, 
eiicrald 

Vera' I 
)le,  tall, 
;  central 
ever  se« 

ti  comes 
gety  and 
alone   is 

of  eye, 
^s  except 
jcy.     No 

Darner, 
n,  on  the 
no  relig 
1  Cuban, 
jealously 
ial  bless- 
las  been 

one  has 

of  duty 

front  of 

traiE— 

y  to  ec- 

inch  thd 

wn  on  a 

her  life 

"it  has 
know   J 


couldb't  take  half  my  lunch  this  noon.     I  fell  sure  it  would 
be  short." 

It  is  not  short — it  is  not  a  misfit ;  it  satisfies  even  Misi 
Lightwood.  It  is  packed  and  put  in  the  carriage,  and  then 
they  sweep  through  St.  Ann's  to  make  a  few  last  pui chases. 
When  she  drives  along  these  streets  next,  Vera  thinks,  it  will 
be  as  Mrs.  Captain  Ffrench — Mrs.  R.  C.  Ffrench — Mrs 
Veronica  Mary  Martinez  Ffrench — Mrs.  Dick  Ffrench — 
Vera  Ffrench. 

She  has  rung  the  changes  on  this  most  exquisite  cogno- 
men over  and  over  again.  She  has  written  it  in  every  i)OS- 
sible  and  impossible  style  of  chirography  some  five  hundred 
times ;  she  has  repeated  it  aloud,  to  hear  how  it  sounds. 
To-morrow  by  this  time  she  will  have  ceased  to  be  Vera 
Martinez  and  become  Vera  Ffrench;  and  Captain  Dick — 
her  husband — this  time  to-morrow  will  be  back  in  New  York, 
and  the  long,  long  separation  will  have  begun.  He  will 
stay  with  them  but  a  few  hours — has  he  not  said  so  ? — and 
the  next  day  he  sails.  Ah  !  no  fear  of  her  forgetting  that. 
Through  all  the  foolishness,  through  all  the  childishness, 
through  all  the  nonsense,  that  fact  is  ever  present  to  sadden 
and  subdue.     He  is  going  away. 

An  hour  later,  Mrs.  Charlton,  an  hei'  way  upstairs,  is  way* 
laid  by  Miss  Lightwood,  a  smile  on  her  lip,  and  raalice  pre- 
pense  in  her  eye. 

"  Come  into  Vera's  room  a  moment,  will  you,  please,  Mrt, 
Charlton  ?     I  have  something  to  show  you. ' 

Mrs.  Charlton  eyes  her  enemy  distrustfully.  An  amced 
neutrality  obtains  at  present,  but  open  hostilities  are  im  ni- 
nent  at  any  moment  between  these  conflicting  forces. 

"Something  to  show  me,  Miss  Lightwood  "  she  it 
itiffly  beginning,  but  Dora  cuts  in  : 

'*  Oh,  come  !  "  she  says,  airily  ;  "  I  will  not  detain  yon  a 
moment.     And  I  think  it  will  surprise  even  >»<?«." 

Curiosity  has  its  full  share  in  Mrs.  Ciarlton  ;  it  isttrongef 


k!  I 


:  ,  ;  I 


«jl    w-    U 


i" 


[# 


P 


i!  if  ' 


ilii'li 


ito 


TJTE  DAYS  BEPORB. 


'VA  \ 


even  than  her  hearty  desire  to  disoblige  Miss  Li^twood 
She  folloias  suspiciously. 

*'  This  way/'  Dora  says,  and  leads  on  into  he?  own  Bleei> 
ing-room. 

And  then  indeed  Mrs.  Charlton  starts,  stares,  is  dumb. 
For  before  the  glass  stands  Vera — is  it  Vera  ? — that  grace* 
fill  figure  in  trailing  white  silk,  silk  rich  enough  to  "  stand 
alone,"  with  the  cloud  of  illusion  on  its  head  and  dropping 
to  the  carpet,  and  that  virginal  orange  crown  ?  Around  the 
slim  neck  is  a  rope  of  pearls  fit  for  a  Russian  princess,  in 
the  small  ears  pearls,  on  the  slender  hands  glittering  gemi, 
on  the  taper  feet  white  satin  shoes.  It  is  Vera ;  but  a 
transfigured  Vera.  Dress  does  make  a  diflferencc.  In 
sweeping  white  silk  and  pearls,  it  is  a  verj'  different  girl  from 
the  romp  in  short  dresses  who  races,  liushed  and  breathlesf, 
with  Nero  up  and  down  the  Chark'on  roods. 

"  What — what  is  it  ?  "  she  asks. 

"It  is  Vera's  wedding-dress,"  Laj's  Dora,  and  her  blue 
eyes  go  like  two  dagger-points  thj"o?Tgh  her  enemy's  corslet ; 
"and  to-morrow  is  Vera's  wedding  day  I  " 

Mrs.  Charlton  can  by  no  pi.  ^bibility  stare  harder  than  she 
is  staring  already — if  she  could  there  is  no  doubt  but  that 
at  this  anncuiic^^iitent  her  eyei  would  drop  from  their 
orbits. 

"  Her — wtdding — day  1 " 

"Her  wedding-day  my  dear^  Mrs.  Charlton.  She  hat 
stolen  a  march  on  us  older  and  wiser  ones.  Only  sixteen— 
is  it  not  a  shame?  but  Captain  Ffrench  would  have  it. 
And  the  dress — is  it  not  exquisite  ?  And  those  pearls,  look 
at  them,  Mrs.  Charlton,  nearer  please — you  are  short-sighted 
like  myself — the  finest  set  in  Tiffany's.  Are  they  not  fit  foi 
a  duchess  ?  And  this  point — but  perhaps  you  are  not  & 
judge  of  point.  Unless  one  is  in  the  pre  fession,  as  I  am, 
one  is  apt  to  see  so  little  cf  real  point  lace.  The  veil  is  only 
illusion — th^'e  was  no  time  to  imporf  a  bridal  veil.     Does 


Hi! 


IPil 


THE  DAYS  B MFC  RE, 


iSl 


not  white  become  her,  gypsy  though  she  is  ?  Turn  T0tin4 
Vera,  and  let  Mrs.  Charlton  see  the  train — perfect,  is  it  not  ?  '• 

Vera  slowly  revolves  like  a  great  wax-work.  Through  th« 
veil  she  looks  almost  ethereal — so  slight,  so  white,  so  naisty., 

*'  Married  to-morrow  1  "  Mrs.  Charlton  can  but  just  gASp, 

'*  Sudden,  isn't  it  ?  but  he  is  obliged  to  go  the  next  day ; 
and  as  I  say,  he  would  have  it.  It  is  by  his  wish,  too,  that 
we  have  not  told  you— or  any  one,"  after  a  malicious  pause. 

•*Now  that  your  hoi  rid  neuralgia  is  better — oh  !  what  an 
inconvenient  thing  is  that  neuralgia  I  you  will  be  able  to 
come  with  us  to  church.  The  marriage  is  to  take  place  at 
the  Assumption  at  eleven,  with  a  mass  and  the  wholf  nup- 
tial ritual  of  the  Calholic  Church.  Then  we  return  tc  a  d%' 
jeuner^  and  after  that,  I  regret  to  say,  poor  Captain  Ffrench 
is  obliged  to  leave  us.  That  tiresome  expedition  you  know, 
and  he  is  such  a  man  of  honor  that  he  would  not  on  any 
account  go  from  his  word." 

Mrs.  Charlton  is  beginning  to  recover.  The  suddennessi 
of  the  blow  has  partially  stunned  her,  but  n.  w  she  draws 
her  breath,  and  looks  at  her  daring,  triumphant,  malicious 
little  foe. 

"  A  man  of  honor  ?  "  she  repeats  ;  **  so»  it  geems,  and  the 
greatest  fool  under  heaven  I  Do  you  really  mean  to  tell  me 
that " 

**  Vera  dear,  we  will  ave  you,"  iiays  Dcrfi  sweetly.  **Be 
very  careful  not  to  rui  le  the  things  taking  them  off.  Now 
if  you  are  ready,  Mrs.  Charlton " 


She  has  her  out  of  jie  room  and  into  the  hall,  before  Mn, 
Charlton  actually  knows  what  she  is  about  Then  Doni 
faces  her  swiftly,  fitrcely. 

"  If  you  say  one  word  before  Vera,  you  will  repent  it  to 
the  last  day  of  your  life,"  she  exclaims,  and  there  is  souie* 
thing  so  wicked  in  her  eyes  that  the  elder  woman  recoils 
The  next  moment  she  is  gone — rustling  down  the  staircase, 
and  cowed  and  vanqi  shed  Mrs.  Charlton  goes  tocher  roe.A 


'^^I,f 


f  <M 


f^'P'M  1  sii 


n>' 


LM 


^'  'Mm 


w 


I  ^    f*^ 


183 


CAPTAIN  DICK'S   WI^DDINQ, 


Vera  does  not  descend  to  dinner— Dora  orders  her  n 
tions  to  the  maiden  bower.  Mr.  Charlton,  more  and  more 
nervous  as  the  dreaded  hour  draws  near,  sits  silent  and  out 
of  sorts.  Mrs.  Charlton  is  glum  and  speechless.  Dora  ii 
cheerful  and  chatty,  but  nothing  can  lift  the  ante-nuptia] 
gloom.  In  her  heart  she  too  is  nervous,  and  worried,  and 
anxious  to  have  it  all  over.  It  is  such  an  abnormal  sort  of 
wedding  and  even  men  of  honor  may  fail.  Something  may 
happen,  Dr.  Englehart  may  pooh-pooh  him  out  of  it — she 
will  not  breathe  freely  until  half-past  eleven  to-morrow.  By 
that  time,  if  all  goes  well . 

Dinner  proceeds,  dessert  ends,  tl  ere  is  the  drawing-room, 
more  silence,  and  vague  despondency.  Darkness  falls,  the 
summer  night  lies  over  the  world,  and  restless  and  worried 
Dora  goes  out  under  the  whispering  trees,  and  looks  up  at 
her  sister's  windows. 

"  And  if  all  does  go  well  I  hope  she  may  be  happy,"  she 
says  with  a  touch  of  vague  fear  and  compunction,  '*  poor  lit- 
Ue  Vera." 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


CAFfAIN   dick's   WEDDING. 

jNCE  more  the  sun  has  risen,  and  shines  for  t&« 
last  time  in  all  the  days  of  its  shining  on  Vera 
Martinez.  For  when  it  reach??  the  zenit:i  yonder, 
there  will  be  no  Vera  Martinez  any  more,  but  in  her  place 
Vera  ITrench,  the  bride.  She  has  not  a  very  bride-like  look 
just  at  this  moment,  standing  by  the  window,  blinking  up 
anxiously  at  the  rising  luminary,  to  rnak-  quite  sure  there 
are  no  ominous  mare'     tails  in   the  horizon,  with  a  print 


m 


CAPTAI/f  DICK'S  WRDDlira. 


I8| 


her  n 
(1  more 
and  out 
Dora  if 
-nuptial 
ied,  and 
sort  of 
ng  may 
it — she 
)w.     By 

^•room, 
UlSy  the 
worried 
:s  up  at 

py,"  she 
Door  lit- 


for  tLe 
)n  Vera 

yonder, 
r  place 
ke  look 
ting  up 
c  there 
a  print 


dressing-gown  thrown  around  her,  and  her  short  ciop  of 
boyish  black  curls  standing  up  on  end.  It  is  about  five,  and 
she  has  just  got  up,  amazed,  and  a  trifle  disgusted  with  her- 
self to  find  she  has  slept  like  a  top  all  night.  "  I  don't  ex- 
pect to  sleep  a  wink  until  morning,"  she  had  said  solemnly 
ibe  last  thing  to  her  sister,  and  lo  !  before  the  curly  head 
was  fairly  on  the  pillow,  deceitful  slumber  stole  upon  her, 
and  claimed  her  for  its  own.  After  all,  how  little  of  a  hero- 
ine she  is — she  sighs  as  she  thinks  of  it ;  heroines  always 
keep  awake,  and  sit  by  their  casements  the  night  before  they 
are  married.  Vera  has  not  yet  attained  the  age  or  expoi 
rience  that  gives  us  "  white  nights  " — those  long,  blank,  aw- 
ful, sleepless  hours  of  darkness,  when  the  rest  of  creation 
snores,  and  we  alone  lie  with  aching  eyeballs,  feverish,  tosft" 
ing,  nervous,  cross,  wondering  if  the  lagging  day  will  ever 
da.wn.  It  is  her  wedding — her  wedding-day  !  Now  that  it 
is  here  she  cannot  quite  realize  it  It  means  somethmg 
more  than  she  knows  of  surely,  else  why  do  all  girls,  hero 
ines  or  not,  look  upon  it  as  the  one  grand  epoch  of  theii 
lives,  the  pivot  upon  which  their  whole  future  existence  is  to 
turn. 

"  I  am  such  a  little  fool,"  the  girl  thinks,  despondently, 
"  I  don't  know  anything.  I  wonder  what  Captain  Dick  can 
sec  in  me.  I  am  not  fit  to  be  anybod/s  wife,  much  less  his. 
He  is  so  learned,  so  clever,  so  good,  he  knows  so  much— 
what  would  he  say  if  he  knew  I  never  did  a  sum  in  vulgar 
fractions  m  my  life,  and  couldn't  parse  two  sentences  to 
tave  me.  I  think,  after  sll,  I  am  glad  he  is  going  away  ;  it 
will  give  me  a  chance  to  get  over  being  such  an  awful  dunce. 
At  least  1  an  J  not  glad,  and  two  years  is  a  dreadful  time, 

but  still Oh  !  Dot,  isn't  it  just  the  heavenliest  morning, 

after  all ! " 

"  After  all  ?  "  repeats  Dora,  coming  in.  "  Who  ever  ex 
pected  it  was  going  to  be  anything  e:«e'  Good-morning, 
Mrs.  Pfrench— how  did  you  sleep  ? ' 


■i:|;.'^^ 


^ 


IP'     J* 
.J^^  If 


!.    '  '■'. 


i! 

1 

...I 


■■!>  4i 


184 


CAPTAIH  DICK'S  WEDDING, 


Veia  acknowledges  shame-facedly  that  she  neref  ikpi 
better  in  her  life,  and  inquires  ihe  time. 

"  Nearly  six,"  Dora  says,  looking  at  her  pretty  watch. 
You  must  not  think  of  dressing  before  ten.  As  your  hail 
looks  rather  better  uncombed  than  combed,  your  toilet  need 
not  take  long.  Doing  one's  hair  is  always  the  worst.  Vou 
shall  have  breakfast  up  here.  I  will  breakfast  with  you  if 
you  like — then  you  can  take  your  bath,  and  after  that  I  will 
dress  you.  As  we  do  not  start  for  church  until  nearly  eleveu 
there  is  time  and  to  spare." 

"1  wish  I  could  go  out,"  says  Vera,  looking  wistfully 
down  to  where  Nero  stands  on  the  lawn,  looking  wistfully 
up,  and  wondering  why  his  mistress  does  not  come  for  hei 
matutinal  game  of  romps  ;  **  and  look  at  poor  Nero.  I  de- 
clare if  he  isn't  watching  my  window.  Just  one  race,  Dot — 
no  one  need  know." 

But  Dora  will  not  hear  of  it.  Vera  is  to  understand  that 
her  romping  days  are  over.  *'  Respectable  married  women 
{by  the  way,  I  wonder  why  married  women  are  always  stig- 
matized respectable)  do  not  as  a  rule  get  up  at  five  in  the 
morning,  and  go  scampering  over  the  country  with  the 
house-dog.  We  are  going  to  change  all  that,  and  for  the 
time  to  come  Mrs.  R.  C.  Ffrench  is  to  behave  her  self ^ 
Then  Dora  goe%  for  sho  has  very  much  to  do  this  morning, 
and  hides  ak  anvious  heart  under  her  tight  French  corsets. 
There  is  the  sour  and  surly  Harriet  to  conciliate,  if  she  can , 
there  is  Mrs.  Charlton  to  keep  an  eye  on,  for  Mrs.  Charlton 
looked  dangerous  last  night ;  there  is  Mr.  Charlton  to  string 
up  to  concert  pitch,  and  be  put  in  a  proper  frame  of  mind 
to  meet  this  contumacious  step-son.  Vera  must  be  kept 
prisoner  in  h<*r  room,  partly  because  it  is  the  proper  thing  to 
do,  and  partly  because  there  is  no  trusting  her  in  the  conv 
pany  of  Mrs.  Charlton  Impossible  to  tell  what  that  vicious 
old  harridan  may  not  venomously  flash  out,  and  if  Vera  only 
knows  the  truth,  or  half  the  truth,  silly,  and  childish,  and 


f 


CAPTAIN  DICK'S   WEDDING, 


i«5 


Gf    dtp! 

'  watch, 
our  hail 
let  need 
t.  Vou 
h  you  if 
at  I  will 
y  eleveu 

wistfully 
wistfully 
;  for  hei 
».  I  de« 
;,  Dot— 

md  that 

I  women 

ays  stig- 

'e  in  the 

vrith   th& 

for  the 

herselfr 

lorning, 

corsets. 

>he  can , 

Charlton 

:^o  string 

of  mind 

be  kepi 

thing  to 

le  coni' 

t  vicious 

ira  only 

sh.  and 


oninformed  as  she  is,  Dora  knows  that  all  hope  of  a  wedding 
to-day  will  be  at  an  end.  Vera  is  woman  enough  for  this, 
although  she  has  hardly  outgrown  hoops  and  skipping-ropea^ 
therefore  Dora  locks  her  sister  coolly  in  her  chamber,  and 
carries  off  the  key.  After  half-past  eleven  Mrs.  Charlton 
may  say  what  she  pleases,  the  ceremony  once  safely  orer^ 
and  though  she  talks  until  crack  o'  doom,  she  will  not  talk 
the  ring  off  Vera  Ffrench's  finger. 

Breakfast  comes.  Mrs.  Charlton  comes.  Dangerous  ! — 
no  need  to  look  twice  to  see  that.  If  it  is  in  her  power  to 
do  mischief  to-day,  she  will  do  it.  Dora  stands  for  a  second 
and  eyes  her  coolly,  steadily,  unflinchingly ;  the  elder  woman 
returns  the  gaze  with  eyes  that  gleam  like  dull  stones.  It 
is  the  look  of  two  well -matched  duellists  just  before  en  garde 
is  cried.  So  far  Miss  Light  wood  has  had  the  best  of  it,  but 
the  wheel  goes  round,  and  she  who  is  on  top  at  nine  in  the 
morning  may  be  at  the  bottom  by  nine  at  night.  Mrs. 
Charlton  smiles,  a  slow,  cruel,  unsmiling  smile. 

"  Is  not  our  bride  coming  to  breakfast,  Dora,  my  dear," 
che  asks. 

"  Brides  generally  breakfast  in  their  own  room,  Mrs. 
Charlton.  When  one  has  had  nothing  to  do  with  brides  and 
bridals  for  half  a  century,  one  naturally  forgets.  You  ac- 
company us  to  church,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  I  will  be  in  at  the  death,  my  dear.  Ha !  ha !  Eleven  I 
think  you  said?  My  poor  old  gray  silk  will  have  to  do. 
And  the  happy  man  " — another  spectral  ha  1  ha !  here — "  at 
what  hour  are  we  to  look  for  him  ?  " 

"  It  is  not  necessary  that  you  should  look  for  him  at  any 
hour,  Mrs.  Charlton.  Pray  don't  give  yourself  that  trouble. 
Young  men  are  so  ungrateful,  and  do  so  cordially  hate  to 
have  well-meaning,  elderly  ladies  look  out  for  them.  GimxI- 
moivmg,  Mr.  Charlton.  We  are  before  you,  you  se  •.  I 
hope  you  are  feebng  quite  well,  sir?" 

''Pretty  well,  my  dear,  pretty  well,"  Mr.  Charlton  answers 


iS6 


CAFTAIN  DICK  S   WEDDING. 


if:;;;: 


1?^ 


ill!  ■ 

- 

i 

L 

L. 

flurricdly.  **  Good-morning,  ma'am.  Tea  this  momin|t 
Dora,  my  dear  ;  coffee  makes  my  hand  shaky »  How  is  the 
neuralgia,  Mrs.  Charlton  ?  " 

"  The  neuralgia  is  very  much  better,  Mr.  Charlton.  I 
trust  you  feel  no  twinges  of  your  old  enemy,  the  gout  ?  It 
would  be  such  a  pity  if  you  could  nol  go  to  church  thif 
morning  and  give  away  the  bride.  Our  dear  Miss  Ligni* 
wood,  who  can  do  almost  anything,  can  hardly  do  tnal.  Vou 
see  1  am  informed  of  the  happy  event.  7'he  notice  wai 
0nort,  but  among  relativ  's,  and  for  so  strictly  private  an 
affair,  longer  was  not  needed.  And  poor  Captain  Ffrench 
is  really  going  to  pay  the  penalty  of  that  rash  child's  impru 
dence  after  all  I     Dear  !  dear  !  dear  1 " 

"  How  grateful  Captain  Ffrench  would  be  for  your  sympa* 
thy,  to  be  sure  !  "  says  Dora,  mockingly.  "  Such  a  pity  he 
is  not  here  to  hear  it  1  So  great  a  favorite  as  you  are  of  his, 
too !  I  should  think,  now,  you  are  the  sort  of  elderly  lady 
young  men  would  always  be  fond  of.  And  that  reminds  me. 
Do  you  happen  to  know  a  young  gentleman  by  the  name  ol 
Ernest,  Mrs.  Charlton  ?  " 

Mrs.  Charlton  looks  across  at  her,  n^urder  in  her  '^ye. 
It  is  /ulgar,  it  is  lowering  herself  in  the  eyes  of  her  host, 
Dora  feels,  this  war  of  words,  but  for  the  life  of  her  she  can- 
not help  hitting  back. 

"  I  have  known  a  young  gentleman  by  tl»e  name  of  Ernest^ 
Miss  Lightwood.     May  1  ask  his  other  name  ?  " 

But  Dora  only  smiles — a  smile  that  has  a  volume  of  mean* 

ing. 

"He  is  a  very  dear  friend  of  Nelly's,  is  he  not?"  she 

ftsks.     "  I  wonder  why  he  did  not  come  to  the  house  whrn 

h:  called  upon  he  instead  of " 

Mrs.  Charlton  )  ^ys  down  her  knife  and  fork,  and  her  fiace 
tarns  to  a  leaden  lividness. 

"  Hut,  theie  1 "  cries  Dora  ,  "  perhaps  I  am  indiscreet.  1 
have  no  business  to  betray  poor,  dear  Nelly  s  secrets.     No 


^ 


CAPTAIN  DICK'S   UrKDDWG. 


t*T 


w  if  the 

iton.     I 
»ut  ?    It 

irch  thill 

v.  ^'ou 
tice  waa 
ivate  an 
Ffrench 
s  impru 

r  sympa* 
a  pity  he 
re  of  his, 
lerly  lady 
linds  me. 
name  ol 

hex   eye. 

ler  host, 

she  can' 

»f  Ernest, 

of  mean« 

Dt?"  she 
use  ytrhfin 

her(ac« 

creet.    1 

sti.     No 


imrs.  Charlton,  I  positively  decline  to  say  another  word, 
My  overhearing  was  purest  accident.  I  came  upon  them 
Dne  night  by  chance  Only" — and  here  she  looks  steadily 
Across  at  the  furious  face  before  her — ''  I  wouldn't  say  too 
much  about  Vcra's  imprudence  if  I  were  you.  Vera  is  a 
child  of  sixteen,  and  her  imprudence  was  unpremeditated. 
If  she  were  three  and  twenty,  and  made  and  kept  assignation! 
by  night  and  by  stealth  down  there  in  the  grounds  with  clan- 
destine  lovers,  it  would  be  another  thing.  Mr.  Charlton,  I 
really  must  beg  your  pardon  for  this.  It  is  in  atrocious  taste, 
I  know,  and  makes  you  horribly  uncomfortable,  but  it  if 
forced  upon  me.  I  wish  to  say  no  more — if  I  am  permitted 
to  keep  my  own  counsel." 

She  rises  abruptly,  and  quits  the  room,  and  Mr.  Charlton, 
with  a  hastily  muttered  apology,  and  in  abject  terror,  follows 
her  example.  And  if  Mrs.  Charlton  could  drop  an  ounce  or 
so  of  prussic  acid  in  the  wine  Miss  Lightwood  expects  to 
drink  when  next  she  sits  at  table,  she  has  all  the  good  will 
in  the  world  at  this  moment  to  do  it. 

There  is  no  more  time  for  recrimination  •,  it  is  half-past 
nine.  Dora  hastens  up  to  make  her  own  toilet,  and  makes  it 
more  expeditiously  than  she  ever  dressed  eH  grande  tenut 
before.  After  all  it  is  simple — a  pale  pink  silk,  an  elaborate 
coiffure,  iiith  orange  flowers  and  pale  roses.  Her  resolute 
little  hands  shake  as  she  fastens  buttons  and  hair-pins.  Her 
'-ncoimter  with  her  enemy  has  excited  her ;  she  has  given 
And  expects  no  quarter.     If  the  old  wretch  waylays   Dick 

Ffiench,  and  gets  him  all  to  herself  for  ten  minutes . 

Dora  sets  her  teeth.  Let  her  try  it !  Ffrench  is  not  the 
man  to  listen  to  innuendoes ;  Dora  knows  that  from  mor< 
tifying  experience  ;  his  rebuff  will  be  short  and  curt  enough. 
It  is  Vera  she  is  afraid  of.  Vc/a  must  not  be  left  a  moment 
unguarded  until  all  is  over. 

Vera  is  roaming  about  hc«  room,  restless,  f  igety,  growing 
^verish  and  excited  in  turn,     flow  slo^yly  the  moments  diag. 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-S) 


1.0 


I.I 


1.25 


i^lM 


|Z5 


U£   1^     11 

■U    13.      ii 

u   IkI 


2.2 


2.0 


in 


1.4 


11^ 


7 


*» 


% 


n 


>'} 


Photographic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)  872-4503 


.<»^% 

^^A' 
*^.% 


%0 


^ 


[v 


o^ 


i8S 


CAPTAIN  3iar*S   WEDDI»G. 


W 


She  is  surprised  to  find  she  cannot  eat.  Sleep  has  been  h« 
faithful  friend,  but  appetite  has  deserted  her.  What  doei 
Dot  mean  by  locking  her  up  ?  She  is  not  going  to  ruD 
away.  What  did  Mrs.  Charlton  mean  by  calling  Captait 
Dick  a  fool  yesterday  ? — '•  the  greatest  fool  under  heaven  I ' 
Was  it  because  he  was  going  to  marry  her  f  Dot  says  it  ii 
pure  spite,  and  perhaps  it  is ;  she  certainly  did  want  him  for 
Eleanor.  How  odd  and  queer  it  will  seem  to  meet  Captain 
Dick  now.  Her  heart  beats  at  the  thought  of  it.  She  never 
felt  shy  of  him  before,  but  she  tmms  hot  and  uncomfortable 
now  at  the  idea. 

Dora  comes  at  last,  and  dressing  begins.  Vera  watchei 
her  with  interest,  wondering  to  see  how  pale  she  is,  and  how 
excited  her  eyes  look.  This  too  ends,  and  it  is  Vera's  turn. 
Dora  does  everything.  With  deft,  skilled  fingers  she  makes 
vhe  most  of  the  curly  crop,  and  the  soft,  shining  rings  lie 
close  about  the  small,  shapely  head.  The  trained  white  silk 
is  on,  and  buttoned  up ;  a  bouquet  of  sweet  white  blossoms, 
all  dewy  and  fresh,  is  fastened  in  the  corsage  ;  the  pearls  are 
clasped,  those  lovely  moonlight  "  congealed  tears ; "  the  ear- 
rings are  going  in,  when  "  low  on  the  sand,  and  loud  on  the 
gtone,"  there  comes  the  quick  crash  of  carriage  wheels. 

Dora  stops  in  her  work ;  Vera  seizes  the  table,  and  for 
one  giddy,  strange  moment,  the  room,  the  whole  world, 
swims  roui^  in  mist.  She  does  not  know  why,  but  it  gtvei 
her  a  shock,  a  sharp,  blinding  shock,  and  every  pulse  seemn 
to  stop  beating. 

"  Here  they  are,"  cries  Dora  triumphantly  ;  "  heie  is  Dr. 
Cnglehart,  and  here  is  Richard  Ffrench.  Vera,  come  and 
peep." 

But  Vera  does  not  stir.  Wondering,  Dora  turns,  and  seei 
her  all  in  a  second  gone  deathly  white. 

**  Good  heavens  1  she  is  going  to  faint  1  Why,  you  shock* 
ing  little  idiot  1  Here,  drink  this  1  What  on  eartia  if  tlit 
Batter  with  you  ?  " 


shock 
ii  th« 


CAPTAIS  DTCr*S  WEDDING, 


1% 


**  I— ^on't— -know.  It  WM  so  sadden.  Oh  1  Don,  I  «c» 
der  if  he  if  glad." 

•«  Glad  ?  " 

"  Glad — happy  that  it  is  his  wedding-day.  Oh  I  I  101 
afraid,  I  am  afraid  1  Now  that  it  is  here — I  don't  know  why, 
it  seems  so  strange,  so  unreal,  so  awful/  Are  you  sure— « 
^ure,  mind — that  there  is  no  mistake,  that  he  really  and 
traly  wants  me  to  marry  him  ?  " 

Dora  stares  at  her,  amaze,  anger,  consternation  in  hm 
face. 

**  Vera,"  she  says,  "  I  always  knew  you  were  a  little  fool, 
but  that  you  were  sueh  a  little  fool,  I  never  knew  until  to- 
day. Why,  you  unparalleled  goose,  did  you  not  get  his  letter  ? 
has  Mr.  Charlton  not  talked  to  you  ?  is  he  not  here  now  ? 
And  yet  to  go  at  the  last  moment " 

"  I  won't  say  another  word,"  Vera  says,  humbly.  "  Dot, 
how  does  he  look  ?  " 

"  Oh  ! — ^like  an  unfledged  arch-angel  of  course  I  big  and 
brown,  and  solemn  as  an  owl.  I  foresee  we  are  to  have  a 
deadly — lively  wedding — Mrs.  Charlton  for  the  tiie  de  mort^ 
and  the  bridegroom  for  the  marble  guest  Now  draw  on 
your  gloves,  and  lei  as  ^o  down.  There  is  Mr.  Charlton 
tapping  at  the  door,  and  it  is  ten  minutes  of  eleven." 

**  Shall — shall  I  not  see  him  except  before  everybody  ?  " 
stammers  Vera.  Her  hands  feel  cold  and  shaky,  her  voice 
trembles,  she  forgets  even  to  look  at  the  glass. 

•'  No  ! "  sharply.  "  What  need  ?  you  have  all  the  rest  of 
youi  life  to  look  at  him.  Whatever  you  want  to  say  must 
keep  until  after  he  comes  back  from  Honduras.  Here,  come 
on,  I  don't  know  what  makes  me  so  nervous  this  morning. 
Wedding!  are  always  nervous  sort  of  things  I  suppose. 
Come." 

Mr.  Charlton  is  waiting,  he  draws  the  gloved  hand  of  the 
tittle  brown  bride  through  his  arm,  with  a  reassuring  smile 
And  thus  they  are  down-stairt — Vera  feels  that  she  is  w  alk- 


13' 

V 


'.n  I 


il 

I  i 


«  I. 

f 


3. 


190 


CAPTAIN  DiCtrs  WEDDiHG, 


ing  in  her  sleep — and  in  the  drawing- room,  where  two  gcifc 
tlemeu  stand.  A  mist  is  before  her  eyes,  she  clings  fast  to 
the  protecting  arm,  and  through  that  mist  sees  her  hero  ap« 
proach.  She  does  not  look  up,  in  all  her  bright  life  she  haf 
never  felt  so  shy,  and  frightened,  and  queer — the  beating  xA 
her  heart  seems  alone  enough  to  stifle  her.  One  desire,  one 
wild,  desperate,  desire,  she  is  conscious  of — to  run  away  from 
them  all,  and  never  stop  until  she  reaches  New  Vork.  A 
smile  is  breaking  up  the  gravity  of  Captain  Dick's  face— he 
holds  out  his  hand. 

*'  Vera  1 "  he  says.  At  hit  voice  it  all  clears  away,  and  she 
looks  up.  It  is  the  old  pleasant,  half  quizzical  look,  she 
knows  so  well,  and  it  is  the  dear,  handsome,  familiar,  smiling 
face  that  bends  down.  She  has  no  time  to  speak,  for  Mr. 
Charlton  is  introducing  Dr.  Englehart,  who  looks  at  her  with 
keen,  steely,  searching  eyes.  The  keen,  steely  glance  ends 
in  a  smile,  half-puzzled,  half-amused,  with  an  underlying 
touch  of  sarcasm,  and  then  he  makes  a  courtly  bow.  Then 
he  is  presented  to  Dora,  then  *o  Mrs.  Charlton,  and  then- 
still  in  a  somnambulistic  state,  Vera  finds  herself  in  the  car- 
riage and  on  the  way  to  church.  Not  a  word  has  been 
exchanged  between  her  and  Captain  Dick ;  he  has  spoken 
her  name,  given  her  a  friendly  look,  and  a  warm  hand-clasp, 
and  is  foll(^ving  after.  Mr.  Charlton,  by  her  side,  is  recalling, 
m  a  perturbed  way,  that  Dora  and  Mrs.  Charlton  are  shut  up 
together,  and  he  wonders  helplessly  if  they  will  fight  If  it 
ever  comes  to  blows,  Mrs.  Charlton  jvill  have  the  best  of  it  \ 
Now  they  are  whirling  through  St.  A  nn's,  in  a  cloud  of  white 
dust,  that  necessitates  closed  windows,  and  more  slowly  up 
the  sloping  hill,  crowned  with  a  humble  little  wooden  church, 
the  "sign  of  hope  to  man"  glittering  from  the  spire.  Now 
they  have  -^^opped — not  a  creature  is  to  be  «een,  and  now 
they  aie  out  and  going  up  the  nave,  and  the  candles  are  lit 
on  the  altar,  and  in  a  moment  Father  Darner  appears,  veste<J 
with  a  little  wbte  and  red  acolyte  following.     Oh  I  how 


CAPTAIN  DICX'S   WEDDING, 


191 


Hi 


•trange,  how  solemn  it  all  is  I  She  trembles,  she  is  cold  and 
white,  her  eyes  rest  on  the  priest  with  a  dilated,  unnatural 
look.  *'  Richard,  wilt  thou  take  Veronica,  here  present,  for 
thy  lawful  wife,  according  to  the  rite  of  our  holy  Mother,  the 
church  ?  "  She  turns  upon  him  a  startled  glance — if  he  were 
to  respond,  **  No,  father^-certainly  not,"  it  would  not  sur» 
prise  her  in  th<?  least.  But  he  answers  instead,  ^'  I  wiH,** 
and  then  Father  Darner  turns  to  her,  and  asks  the  same, 
and  Dora  has  to  give  her  an  unseen  poke  before  she  remem- 
bers it  is  her  turn  to  say  '*  I  will."  And  then  her  long  five- 
button  glove  is  drawn  off,  and  Mr.  Charlton  gives  her  away, 
and  with  her  hand  clasped  fast  in  his,  Richard  Ffrench's  deep 
voice  is  saying : 

**  I,  Richard,  take  thee,  Veronica,  to  be  my  wedded  wife, 
to  have  and  to  hold,  from  this  day  forward,  for  better,  for 
worse,  for  richer,  for  poorer,  in  sickness  and  in  health,  til) 
death  do  us  part,  if  holy  church  will  it  permit ;  and  thereto  I 
plight  thee  my  troth." 

And  now  the  ring  is  blessed,  and  on,  and  Father  Darner  ii 
reading  a  long  Latin  prayer,  and  once,  before  it  ends,  she 
steals  a  glance  at  the  bridegroom.  How  grave  he  is — but 
beyond  that  earnest  gravity  she  can  read  nothing.  He  haf 
taken  her,  she  him— oh  1  how  gladly—a  thousand,  thousand 
times,  for  life  and  death,  and  beyond  death  if  she  may  1 
Her  heart  is  full  of  love,  of  joy,  of  thankfulness.  In  all  the 
world  there  is  no  one  like  him,  and  he  is  hers,  her  very  own 
for  all  time  1  The  last  blessing  is  given — it  is  all  over,  they 
are  man  and  wife.  Some  thought  brings  a  sudden  rush  of 
tears  to  her  eyes ;  she  lifts  them  to  his,  and  meets  the 
strangest  glance  in  return  I  She  does  not  understand  it — is  it 
■orrow— is  it  passionate  regret?  Surely  not — it  passes  in 
that  glance,  and  they  are  in  the  vestry,  signing  the  register, 
and  Dot  has  kissed  her  with  shining,  triumphar  t  eyes,  and 
Father  Darner  has  shaken  hands  smilingly,  and  wished  her  • 
long  and  happy  married  life.     He  has  been  invited  to  the 


■?  i 


V. 


I 


I 


in  > 


192 


CAPTAIN  DfCJCS   WEDDING. 


i 


'ft  t 


iredding  feast,  but  duty  calls  him  elsewhere  tmd  he  cannot 
come.  And  this,  too,  is  over,  and  they  are  out  of  the  church 
and  back  in  the  carriages,  and  it  is  her  husband  who  is  be* 
fide  her.  They  flash  back  over  the  same  dusty  road,  tho 
•ame  sleepy  streets — the  world  is  the  same,  yet  everything  ii 
changed.  She  does  not  speak,  she  is  afraid  to  speak,  afraid 
of  him  as  he  sits  here,  so  silent,  so  thoughtful,  so  changed. 
What  is  he  thinking  of?  and  how  little  is  he  like  her  Captain 
I>ick  I  He  was  never  grave,  and  mute,  and  pre-occupied 
like  this.  They  are  actually  half-way  home  before  he  speaks 
one  word.  Then  he  takes  the  little  dark  hand,  the  left,  and 
looks  at  the  shining  hoop. 

"  It  is  the  smallest  1  could  get,  but  it  is  too  large.  Vera. 
What  a  pretty  little  hand  you  have — I  never  noticed  before. 
So  childish  a  hand,  too,  to  wear  a  wedding  ring  1  " 

Is  it  a  sigh  she  hears,  a  sigh  smothered  ?  She  looks  up 
quickly,  he  is  smiling,  but  only  his  mouth,  his  eyes  look 
grave. 

*•  You  are  not  sorry  ?  "  she  says,  wistfully. 

"  Sorry,  dear  ?  Why  should  I  be  ?  I  was  always  fond  of 
my  little  Vera.  Have  you  been  talking  to  Mr.  Charlton  ? 
Has  he  told  you  of  our  arrangements  ?  " 

*'  I  am  to  stay,  and  go  to  school,  or  have  a  governess.  I 
need  it  surely,"  Vera  answers,  slowly.  "  I  mean  to  study 
reiy  hard,^aptain  Dick,  so  that  you  may  not  be  ashamed 
•I  me  when — when  you  come  back." 

**  I  could  nevftr  be  ashamed  of  you.  All  the  same,  study 
iiard — yzpi  bar:  four  g3od  years  yet  before  you  are  a 
wuman.' 

**  Are  you  going  to  be  away  four  years  ?  "  she  asks,  a  little 
tremor  in  the  shy  voice,  a  startled  glance  in  the  brown  eyes 
— "  four  long  years  ?  " 

'*  Who  knows  ?  "  he  says,  with  an  impatient  ligh,  and  the 
eyes  that  look  away  from  her  are  full  of  pain.  "Not  L 
Very  likely  not,  but  in  any  case  you  are  to  write  to  me.  t» 


CAPTAIN  DtCK'S  WEDDING, 


193 


the 
lot  L 


■i»Hiber — that  is  an  old  compact  you  know,  little  Vera,  and 
whenever  I  chance  to  be  near  a  post  town,  I  will  drop  yon  a 
line.  Grow  up,  study  hard,  write  me  long  letters,  be  ai 
happy  as  a  queen — that  is  to  be  the  programme  until  my 
return." 

"And  thenf"  the  dark,  solemn  uplifted  eyes  ask.  Bu. 
«he  answers  not,  she  does  not  get  on  with  Captain  Dick  to- 
day. That  odd,  un])leasant  feeling  of  shyness  will  not  be 
shaken  off.  Why  is  his  tone  so  serious  ?  Why  have  his  eyei 
that  sad,  dark,  troubled  look,  a  dreamy  far  away  look  too,  as 
if  they  saw  ever  so  far  oflF,  beyond  and  above  her  poor  little 
schoolgirl  life.  She  has  never  before  felt  so  utterly  apart 
from  him,  so  nearly  afraid  of  him,  so  little  at  her  ease  with  him, 
as  on  this  morning  that  has  made  her  his  wife.  They  have 
taken  scores  of  ttte-d-t^te  drives  before,  and  their  happy  young 
laughter  has  rung  out  in  unison ;  but  Captain  Dick  looks  at 
this  moment  as  if  he  had  never  laughed  in  his  life,  and  nevei 
meant  to  begin.  Does  the  marriage  ceremony  affect  all 
gendemen  in  this  unpleasant  manner  ?  For  the  first  time  in 
her  life,  she  wishes  the  drive  with  Captain  Dick  would  come 
to  an  end.  She  has  her  wish,  they  are  going  up  the  avenue, 
they  are  at  the  door.  He  springs  out,  hands  her  down,  and 
dmws  her  gloved  hand  under  his  arm. 

"  My  wife !  "  he  says,  and  for  the  first  time  the  old  smiU 
flasl  es  forth  for  a  second.  "  That  hac  an  cTdd  si  und,  has  it 
not,  Dofla  Vera  ?  " 


■:fh 

V 

in 


n  1 


li'i 
■if. 


Utde 
eyes 


•jfi 


■94 


rOST-NUPTtAt, 


CHAPT^ZJL  XX. 


POST-KUFTUL. 


% 


111 


ill! 


|AB.RIET  of  the  flat  figure  and  %ssa  temper  hat  it 
least  the  merit  of  being  compete  Lt  to  the  occasion, 
and  the  breakfast  that  awaits  the  bridal  party  ii 
above  reproach.  But  neither  the  appetite  nor  the  spirits  ol 
the  company  do  any  sort  of  justice  to  it  A  cloud  hangs  over 
the  festive  board,  and  though  the  feast  is  set,  and  the  guestf 
have  met,  there  is  little  eaten  and  less  said.  Mr.  Charlton,  for 
the  first  time  in  his  hospitable  life,  at  the  head  of  his  own  board, 
is  neither  social  nor  genial — ^his  brows  are  knit,  his  glance  if 
gloomy,  his  mouth  looks  stem.  The  bridegroom  retains  the 
silence  and  gravity  that  have  wrapped  Mm  as  a  mantle  since 
his  coming.  Once  or  twice,  it  is  true,  he  makes  an  effort  to 
rally,  but  it  is  so  palpably  an  effort  that  it  is  rather  a  relief 
when  he  relapses.  Mrs.  Charlton  does  not  speak  one  sin- 
gle word,  except  when  once  or  twice  directly  addressed  by 
courteous  Dr.  Englehart — no  one  else  has  the  courage  to 
attempt  it.  It  would  seem  as  though  she  had  entered  into  a 
compact  with  herself  to  remain  dead  silent  until  an  opporta* 
nity  occurs  of  speaking  fatally  to  the  purporc.  At  least  this 
is  what  Dora  thinks — Dora  watching  her  furtively  and  incei- 
santly,  and  determined  to  balk  her,  if  human  vigilance  can 
do  it.  It  is  up-hill  work  for  Miss  Lightwood ;  she  is  the 
only  leaven  to  lighten  the  whole  mass,  and  she  comes  up  to 
time  nobly,  and  does  her  best.  The  one  wedding-guest 
seconds  her  efforts,  thinking  that  in  all  his  experience  of 
?p:xlding-breakfasts,  this  one  stands  dismally  alone.  As  for 
the  poor,  little  bewildered  bride,  a  great  vague  terro*-  is  tak- 
ing possession  of  her.     Something  's  wrong,  soaic^hing  if 


J'-»..H.1.J1-Ili...» 


P9MT4nrPTiAL. 


191 


can 

the 

ip  to 

[gueit 

Ice  (A 

s  for 

tak- 


ing 


If 


■bnonoal  and  out  of  the  common,  something  li  the  matter 
with  everybody  Why  does  Captain  Dick  look  like  that, 
and  so  very  unlike  himself?  Why  is  he  so  quiet,  to  de- 
pressed ?  What  does  it  all  mean  ?  If  he  really  wished  to 
marry  her,  wliat  business  has  he  to  look  unhappy  about  it  ? 
and  if  he  did  not  wish  to  marry  her  why  has  he  done  it  ? 
Oh  1  if  she  were  not  so  stupid,  so  ignorant,  so  young  1 
What  is  the  matter  with  them  all  ?  People  drink  toasts,  and 
make  speeches  at  wedding-breakfasts,  she  has  always  under- 
stood, but  no  one  does  it  here.  Once,  Dr.  Englehart,  with  a 
kindly  smile  at  the  pale,  startled  face,  proposes  health  and 
happiness  to  the  bride,  and  Captain  Dick  responds.  But  it 
is  only  a  flash  in  the  pan,  and  the  cloud  settles  again.  A 
slow  smile,  a  slow,  cruel,  "  crawling  "  sort  of  smile,  as  Dora 
names  it,  actually  crosses  the  grim  face  of  Mrs.  Charlton. 
The  deadly  oppression  that  hangs  over  the  part'  'as  **  nuts  " 
to  her,  in  her  present  venomous  mood. 

It  ends  at  last,  just  as  Vera  is  beginning  to  stifle,  and 
there  is  an  adjournment  to  the  drawing-room.  And  then, 
46r  the  first  time  since  his  arrival,  Mr.  Charlton  goes  up  to 
bis  step-son,  looks  him  in  the  face,  and  addresses  him. 

*<  I  wish  you  to  come  with  me  to  my  study  for  a  momenty 
Captain  Ffrench,"  he  says,  stiffly ;  '*  I  will  not  detain  yoa 
but  a  very  brief  time." 

In  all  the  years  he  has  borne  it,  Mr.  Charlton  nas  nevef 
called  him  by  his  military  title  before.  Dick  reddens  now, 
but  he  also  smiles  slightly. 

"  I  am  at  your  service,  governor, **  he  says,  with  a  momen- 
tary return  to  his  old  cheery  manner,  <*  for  as  long  a  time  as 
you  like," 

Dora,  standing  with  Dr.  Englehart,  sees  them  go — so,  too, 
does  Mrs.  Charlton.  She  also  sees  the  bride  escaping  from 
among  them,  and  fljing  out  of  the  house  and  down  the  gar- 
den, regardless  of  damage  to  the  white  silk  train — the  apple 
of  her  «ye  and  the  pride  of  her  heart  but  two  bncf  >om* 


\ 


It 


% 

•f 

■■h 


1 1" 


! :' 


ill 


I 


Hii 

POST^UPTtAL, 

before. 

ike 

sees  everything  an  J  bides  her  time. 

TSuMX  rad 

sig  ^a}  lamp, 

"  Dangerous,"  is  s^U  up,  and  Dora  feels  that                   1 

all  hsr 

ablest 

strategy  will  be  needed  to  outmaoojuvre  Hei                   | 

here. 

Vera  makes  her  way  down  the  gravelled  paths  towards  a 
•iiinmer-house  she  knows  of,  embowered  in  a  gieat  gietn 
tangle  of  grape-vine.  Fortunately  the  grass  was  rolled  only 
yesterday — it  htJ  not  rained  for  a  week,  so  the  bridal  silk 
takes  no  damage.  But  bridal  silks  and  sweeping  trains  have 
lost  their  charm  ;  once  more  the  world  is  hollow,  and  "  things 
are  not  what  they  seem." 

She  is  married  to  Captain  Dick,  all  fast  and  firm  ;  here  is 
the  ring  shining  in  the  sunlight ;  but  Captain  Dick  looks 
very  desperately  out  of  sorts  over  it.  What  is  the  matter  ? 
why  has  he  married  her  ?  She  sinks  down  dejectedly  on  a 
low  seat,  and  pushes  the  soft  dark  curls  oflf  her  face  with  a 
hopeless,  sorrowful  sigh.  Oh,  dear,  dear  I  his  going  away 
was  bad  enough,  but  this  is  a  thousand  times  worse.  And  if 
it  were  not  such  a  dense  mystery.  She  used  to  think  mys- 
teries nice,  and  for  that  matter  she  likes  them  still — in 
weekly  numbers  ;  but  for  everyday,  and  where  Captain  Dick 
is  concerned — no.  If  he  didn't  want  to,  why  did  he  ?  She 
never  asked  him,  his  step-father  never  asked  him— Dot  say3 
so.  And  if  he  did  it  because  he  liked  her,  and  wished  to  of 
his  own  free  will,  why  is  he  so  sulky  (that  is  the  word  Vera 
applies  to  her  hero) — so  sulky  about  it  now?  It  is  not  like 
him,  and  he  used  to  seem  fond  of  her.  Vera  feels  despond- 
ently that  being  married  is  not  the  blissful  sort  of  thing  un- 
married people  make  it  out.  If  she  had  known  it  was  goui^^ 
10  be  like  this,  she  would  never  have  said  yes  ;  she  would 
hav^e  seen  both  him  and  Dot  further,  first  !  There  is  some* 
thing  wrong.  If  they  were  good  friends  as  they  used  to  be, 
shf»  would  go  and  ask  Captain  Dick  ;  but  he  is  unlike  him. 
lelf,  and  /Jie  is  in  awe  of  him.  Slow,  miserable  'lisappointed 
tears  ga>T  in  the  foi  lorn  little  bride's  eyes,  and   she  wipes 


roar-MumM. 


■IT 


like 
lond- 
un» 

lould 
)iiie- 

be, 
Ihim- 
Inted 

ipei 


them  away  gingerly  with  a  bit  of  handkerchief  that  ooat 
thirty  dollais.  She  cannot  even  indulge  in  the  lux  iry  of  a 
good  cry  with  such  a  morsel  of  lace  and  lawn  as  this.  Sh? 
feels  desolate  and  bereft,  very  much  as  Evangeline  may  when 
playing  hide  and  seek  with  the  runaway  Gabriel,  and  unable 
to  catch  up  with  him. 

In  the  study,  a  very  stiff,  and  frozen,  and  petrified  sort  d 
conversation  is  going  on.  Mr.  Charlton  stands  ominously 
erect  and  unbending ;  Captain  Ffrench,  with  his  elbow  on 
the  cliimney-piece,  confronting  him,  wears  about  as  unbride- 
groom-like  a  face  as  can  well  be  imagined.  After  all,  Vera'i 
hero  is  very  mortal — like  most  heroes  in  private  life — he  feeli 
just  at  this  moment  that  it  is  sufficiently  hard  to  have  been 
badgered  into  marrying  a  slip  of  a  school-girl,  who  may  grow 
up  into  a  frivolous  doll  like  her  sister,  without  being  lectured 
and  drawn  over  the  coals,  about  leaving  her,  as  Mr.  Charlton 
has  just  been  doing.  Good  Heavens !  he  thinks,  despond- 
ently, what  else  is  there  to  do,  but  leave  her,  and  let  the 
child  grow  up  ?  What  would  he,  what  would  any  man  in  his 
senses  do  with  a  wife  of  sixteen,  and  the  education  and  ideas 
of  eleven  ? 

'•  It  is  settled  then,"  Mr.  Charlton  is  saying  in  a  slow, 
harsh  sort  of  voice  ;  "  this  is  your  ultimatum  ?     You  start  for 
Honduras  with  the  expedition   to-morrow,  and  leave  your 
wife  with  me  ?     It  would  be  a  pity  if  we  should  misunder 
stand  each  other  at  the  last.     You  positively  go  ?  " 

*'  I  positively  go,"  Dick  says,  doggodly.  "  As  for  leaving 
my  wife  with  you,  governor,  remember  rhe  is  a  wife  forced 
upon  me  by  you  and  Miss  Lightwood — not  one  of  my  own 
choosing.  She,  poor  child,  is  not  to  blame,  and  if  she  finds 
out  b)  and  by  that  this  morning's  work  is  a  fatal  mistake,  i 
will  at  least  have  the  consolation  of  knowing  /  never  asked 
nei  to  make  the  sacrifice.  I  am  i^orry  we  must  part  ti 
anger  ;  you  have  been  so  generous  a  friend  and  father—*' 

Mr.  Charlton  waves  his  hand  in  angry  impatience. 


ilii 


k 

ft 

"I 

I 

ijl 


•1; 

:i5 


I9> 


ro*T-MvmAL. 


\l 


*'We  nill  drop  all  that,  if  you  please.     ProtettatioM  vk 

gratitude  weigh  little  against  ungrateful  actioni.  Go,  if  jm 
will,  but  understand  this— all  testamentary  intentions  I  have 
ever  had  in  your  favor  end  with  your  going." 

*'  Ycu  mentioned  that  before,  you  know,  governor,'*  Dick 
says,  coolly.  **  It  is  not  necessary  to  enter  into  it  again. 
Leave  your  fortune  to  whom  you  please  ;  it  is  entirely  beside 
the  question  of  my  regret  at  your  displeasure.  And  now  if 
everything  is  said,  with  your  permission  I  will  rejoin  Engle- 
hart  and  the  ladies.  The  up  train  leaves  St.  Ann's  at  five  ; 
we  must  catch  it.     It  is  half-past  three  now." 

**  I  have  no  more  to  say."  the  elder  man  responds,  in 
cold,  intense  wrath  ;  **  do  not  let  me  detain  you  from  your 
friend.     We  understand  each  other  thoroughly  now." 

Dick  holds  out  his  hand. 

"  Come,  governor,"  he  says,  "  relax  a  little,  won't  you  i 
Shake  hands  at  least.  This  is  a  little  too  bad,  after  all  that 
is  past  and  gone." 

But  Mr.  Charlton  turns  inflexibly  away. 

"  You  have  chosen  your  path,  and  here  we  part  forever. 
We  will  have  no  hypocritical  pretence  of  friendsliip  or  ro^ 
gret.     We  part  here ;  all  is  said  in  that." 

A  moment  later,  and  Captain  Ffrench  is  scanning  the 
group  in  the  drawing-room.  Dr.  Englehart  has  prevailed 
upon  Miss  Light  wood  to  lift  the  general  despondency  a  little 
by  singing  for  him.  Dick  Ffrench  being  safely  closeted  with 
his  step-father,  Vera  having  isolated  herself  from  human 
ken,  for  the  time  being.  Miss  Lightwood  feels  she  may  relax 
her  surveillance  thus  far.  Consequently,  when  the  bride- 
groom reconnoitres,  she  is  in  the  midst  of  an  Italian  song, 
and  Vera  is  nowhere  visible.  But  Mrs.  Charlton  is  exceed- 
ingly visible,  and  on  the  watch.  She  rises  and  approaches 
him. 

''Captain  Ffrench,''  she  says,  quickly,  ''will  ]roa  let 
me  sfeak   to  you  one  moment?    I  will    lot  detain  yoo 


FOMT-MUFTIAJL 


I9i 


let 
jrou 


longer,  and  Vera  ii  Mmiewhere  out  there,  if  /on  want  to  find 
her." 

Captain  Dick  looks  surprised  and  a  trifle  bored  This  is 
the  second  time  to-day  he  has  been  privately  int  irviewed, 
and  informed  he  will  not  be  detained  a  moment.  He  only 
hopes  the  coming  t^te-d-tite  may  be  less  personal  and  an^ 
pleasant  than  the  past.  He  bows  silently  and  follows,  glan- 
cing at  her  askance  in  some  distrust.  It  has  already  been 
mentioned  that  Captain  Ffrench  is  abnormally  afraid  of  this 
stout  matron,  and  the  eye  of  stone  and  brow  of  rnalignity 
look  more  stony  and  malignant  at  this  moment  than  he  has 
ever  seen  them.  Some  vengeanceful  purpose  is  in  her  mind, 
something  deucedly  uncomfortable  is  coming,  he  feels,  and 
he  thrusts  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  prepares  himself 
darkly  for  the  worst.  She  has  a  fixed  place  as  well  as  pur 
pose  in  view,  it  seems  ;  the  place  is  close  to  a  small,  rustic 
summer-house,  crowned  with  a  grapery.  Close  to  this  she 
takes  her  stand,  and  faces  him. 

<'  Now  for  it  1 "  thinks  the  badgered  bridegroom,  with  an 
inward  groan. 

'*  I  cannot  let  you  go,  Captain  Ffrench,"  begins  Mrs. 
Chariton,  in  a  strident  voice,  which  he  can  feel  turning  his 
skin  to  "  goose  flesh  "  with  its  rasping  vibration — **  I  cannot 
let  you  go  without  speaking  one  word.  Your  step-father  is 
so  completely  under  the  control  of  Dora  Lightwood — so 
utterly  infatuated  with  her,  that  it  is  worse  than  useless  to 
speak  to  him.  I  cannot  let  you  go,  I  say,  without  lifting 
my  voice  against  this  shocking  plot  of  which  you  are  the 
victim." 

*<What  shocking  plot,  Mrs.  Charlton?"  asks  Captain 
Dick,  taking  an  easy  position  against  the  summer-house,  and 
riaking  himself  as  comfortable  as  may  be  under  the  circum- 
stances. 

*<  This  plot  of  Dora  Lightwood' s,  which  Las  iust  ended  iv 
jronr  marriage.    Is  it  possible--can  it  be  possible — that  70a 


I   \ 

:t 

•    I 
( 

'I:  * 

III 

'I; 
I*   ' 


'ii 


PQST^NUFTtAL. 


do  not  aec  througn  it?  Do  you  not.  Iknow  that  it  wai  flM 
who  told  that  lilly  child,  Vera,  of  your  accident — that  it  waf 
she  who  sent  her  to  Shaddeck  Light — that  she  refused  to  go 
in  search  of  her  that  night,  although  urged  to  do  so  by  Mr« 
Charlton  ?  It  was  all,  with  what  has  followed,  a  precon- 
certed plot.  And  Vera  was  in  it.  Silly  she  is,  childish  she 
is,  or  pretends  to  be,  but  she  was  crafty  enough  for  that 
You  are  a  rich  man's  heir.  Charlton  is  a  home  to  be  de- 
sired. They  both  are  working  girls  without  a  penny,  and  I 
say  that  Vera  went  to  Shaddeck  Light  that  night  with  the 
del'berate  intention  of  remaining,  and  of  forcing  you  to  mar- 
ry her — as  you  have  done." 

"And  I  say,"  says  Dick  Ffrench  deliberately,  **it  is  a 
d 4  lie." 

Her  words  have  poured  forth  so  vehemently,  he  has  b^eo 
so  taken  by  surprise,  that  up  to  this  time  he  has  had  no 
chance  to  speak.     But  at  this  she  recoils. 

"  Sir ! "  she  furiously  exclaims. 

*'  A  lie  1 "  repeats  Captain  Ffrench,  coolly,  "  a  poisonous 
ana  foul  Be.  You  will  excuse  very  strong  words,  Mn. 
Cljurlton.  You  like  them,  and  use  them  yourself.  Vera 
Martinez  never  came  to  Siiaildeck  Light  with  any  such  pur- 
p(*se,  never  plotted  or  wished  io  marry  me.  So  far  as  she 
w  is  concerned,  the  whole  thing  was  sheer  accident.  As  for 
b  vt  sister-^ut  perhaps  it  will  be  as  well  to  leave  Miss 
J  fghtwood's  name  out  of  the  question." 

Her  astonishmenr  and  rage  are  so  great,  that  they  keep 
Jtx  for  the  moment  perfectly  speechless. 

Captain  Ffrench  eyes  her  steadily,  and  goes  cm. 

"Supposing,  for  argument's  s&ke  though,  your  Jissertion 
io  be  true,  is  it  not  a  little  late  in  the  day,  my  dear  madam, 
for  you  to  come  forward  and  expose  the  plotters  ?  I  am 
married  now,  your  revelations  will  not  unmarry  me.  And  M 
my  memory  holds  good,  you  were  the  first  and  strongest 
advocat:  of  my  immediate  marriage  that  morning  at  Shid 


POSr-NUFTiAL, 


deck — the  only  reparation  as  9.  znan  of  ^toiior  I  tocJd  make. 
Why  did  you  not  unbosom  youiself  of  all  this  on  that  occa- 
sion instead  ?  It  might  have  served  some  purpose  then — 1 
confess  I  am  at  a  loss  to  see  what  purpose  it  is  to  serve 
now." 

"  Sh  I  "  she  cries,  "  is  this  my  thanks " 

"  Ladies  who  expose  nefarious  plots  never  require  any 
thanks,  do  they  ?  Virtue  is  its  own  reward,  is  it  not  ?  And 
befor*  you  say  any  more,  permit  me  to  set  you  right  o\\ 
another  essential  point.  I  am  not  Mr.  Charlton's  hen*. 
Miss  Lightwood  has  not  captured  a  rich  husband  for  her  sis- 
ter. As  to  Vera — God  bless  her — she  is  my  wife  remember 
— ^it  is  at  once  my  honor  and  my  duty  to  guard  her  reputa* 
tion  against  slanderous  tongues.  You  will  do  me  the  favor 
not  to  repeat  this  very  remarkable  fabrication  again.  It  is 
difficult,  I  know,  to  refute  calumnies,  circulated  by  a  lady ; 
still- 


!• 


Mrs.  Charlton  turns  from  him,  baffled,  furious. 

"  It  is  the  truth  /  "  she  bursts  out,  **  and  you  know  it.  Say 
,i!»hat  you  will,  Captain  Ffrench,  it  is  the  truth,  and  you  have 
been  trapped  so  easily  and  speedily  that  the  snare  i^aa 
hardly  worth  the  pains  Dora  Lightwood  took.  Vera  was 
fond  of  you  ;  she  made  no  secret  of  her  bold  attachment  j 
she  followed  you  like  your  shadow,  or  your  dog ;  she  was 
with  you  early  and  late ;  her  passic  n  was  patent  from  the 
first;  she  went  to  Shaddeck  Light  with  tiie  fixed  lesotu 
tion  of  staying  and  risking  all  consequences.  She  is 
your  wife,  as  you  say.  Yes,  and  I  wish  you  joy  of  your 
bargain  ! " 

She  turns  and  walks  away.  Captain  Ffrench  is  alone  and 
watches  her  out  of  sight.  What  is  he  to  do?  Knock  her 
down  ?  What  a  simple  and  beautifu'  solution  that  would  b« 
!f  she  were  a  man  ;  but  being  a  womaii — may  the  demon  fly 
away  with  her  I  After  all  it  's  a  p'-ivilege  to  belong  to  the 
nnfraiixLhised  sex — one  can  use  such  fine,   strong,  nervoni 


'1    ■; 


M 


rOST'MUPTiAL, 


i'l 


English  when  ons  is  \n  a  towering  rage,  a«d  feels  so 
ably  secure  of  not  getting  a  pair  of  black  eyes  for  it 

But  where  is  Vera  ? 

Captain  Dick  glances  about  him,  takes  out  his  watch,  and 
looks  at  the  hour.  It  is  four.  This  agreeable  conversation 
has  occupied  precisely  half  an  hour.  In  another  he  mtist  be 
en  route.  And  now  he  recalls  Vera's  wistful,  wondering 
face.  Poor  little  soul  1  he  thinks,  it  is  such  a  shame  to 
visit  this  chapter  of  accidents  on  her  head.  Whoever  is  to 
blame,  she  at  least  is  guiltless.  He  feels  remorseful — like  a 
brute — as  if  he  had  pushed  away  harshly  the  timid  overtures 
of  a  shrinking  child.  Mrs.  Charlton  has  said  she  is  some- 
where  in  the  grounds. 

"  Vera  I "  he  calls,  and,  as  if  in  answer,  a  sob  comes  fron 
behind  him.  He  turns  quickly,  parts  the  leaves  ;  the  next 
instant,  with  a  rush,  he  is  in  the  summer-house.  "  Vera  I  " 
he  cries.     **  Great  Heaven  !  is  it  possible  ?  " 

He  is  inexpressibly  shocked.  For  she  is  here,  all  in  a 
white  heap  on  the  damp  floor,  th  j  wedding  robe  irretrievably 
ruined,  huddled  together  in  a  strange,  distorted  attitude  <^ 
pain.  Her  arms  are  on  the  seat,  her  head  laid  on  them ; 
she  neither  moves  nor  looks  up. 

"  Vera !  "  he  cries,  and  tries  to  lift  her  ;  **  Vera,  my  pet  I 
my  dear  little  Vera  I  " 

He  is  lilc«  enough  the  Captain  Dick  of  other  days  now, 
but  Vera  is  past  all  seeing  or  caring.  She  writhes  away  out 
of  his  grasp  with  a  strength  he  wonders  at,  and  only  that 
dry,  sobbing  sound  answers  him. 

"  Vera  I  Vera  1  "  he  repeats,  in  an  agony ;  **  Vera,  look 
uf  !  I  did  not  know — hovt  could  I  know  you  were  here  I 
Vera,  lift  up  your  head !  Good  Heaven  I  what  am  I  to 
•ay  ?     Vera  i  " 

*'  Let  me  be  1  let  me  >e  1 "  she  says,  in  a  smothered  v<MCe 
and  again  frees  herseU  "  Go  away.  Oh !  go.  Do  not 
ipeak  to  me — do  not  touch  me.     Only  let  me  be." 


POST4iUFTtAL. 


■OJ 


to 


''Bat  I  cannot.  Ysu  mustn't  itay  here.  It  is  damp,  and 
see — ^you  have  spoiled  your  prett)  clothes.  Vera— do- 
there  is  a  good  child — get  up.  Look  at  this  mud  and  mould 
on  your  white  dress." 

**  I  wish,"  the  stifled  voice  says,  "  I  had  been  dead  before  I 
ever  put  it  on.     Oh  1  me.    Oh  1  me,  what  shall  1  Jo  ?  " 

The  choking  sobs  break  from  her,  in  a  wild,  hysterical  way, 
that  completely  unmans  him.  What  is  he  to  do  ?  She  hai 
heard  every  word  the  vile-tongued  enemy  has  uttered. 

"  Curse  her  !  "  he  thinks,  savagely ;  "  such  beldames 
ought  to  be  shot  I  Vera  I  "  hopelessly,  "  will  you  get  up ; 
will  you  listen  to  me  ?  What  am  I  to  do  if  you  go  on  like 
this?" 

He  is  at  his  wit's  end.  Without  actual  force  it  is  impossi- 
ble to  lift  her,  and  he  cannot  bear  to  touch  her  roughly.  He 
is  so  sorry  for  her,  and  he  knows  so  little  what  to  say.  If 
she  were  a  woman — if  she  were  Dora  or  Eleanor  and  could 
be  appealed  to  rationally — ^but  he  is  entirely  at  sea  with  Vera. 
He  feels  like  taking  her  on  his  knee,  and  soothing  her  with 
caresses  and  sugar  plums.  And  still  she  crouches  there,  all 
in  that  disordered  white  heap,  and  still  the  dry  muffled  sobs 
tortiu-e  his  ears. 

**  Vera,"  he  says  at  last,  in  desperation,  "  listen  to  me. 
It  is  after  four.  In  fifteen  minutes  Dr.  Englehart  will  be 
ready  to  depart,  and  will  expect  me  to  go  with  him.  But  I 
cannot  leave  you  like  this.  If  you  will  not  get  up,  and  lis- 
ten, I  will  go  back  to  the  house  for  your  sister,  and  my  friend 
must  return  to  the  city  alone." 

He  waits  for  a  moment.  He  has  touched  the  right  chord, 
the  sobs  ccasii,  and  with  a  great  effort  phe  speaks. 

"  Oh !  do  not,"  she  says  ;  "  do  not  call  Dot.  And  don't 
wait,  please  don't  1     Only  leave  me  alone — only  go  I  " 

"  1  will  never  go  and  leave  you  like  this,"  he  answers  re«>. 
lutcly.  **  Stand  up,  and  let  me  speak  to  you,  or  i  will  do  it 
I  have  said.*' 


li 


J04 


FOST  ffUPTIAL, 


She  rises  slowly,  shrinking  from  the  hac  I  that  helps  her 
Her  head  is  drooping,  her  eyes  refuse  to  meet  his,  she  il 
frightfully  pale,  and  seems  to  creep  within  heiself  as  she 
stands.  She  is  so  unlike  Vera,  bright,  laughing,  fearless, 
Vera,  that  for  a  moment  he  cannot  speak.  He  does  not  try 
to  touch  her — with  as  absolute  a  deference  as  he  could  pay 
to  a  queen,  he  stands  before  her,  and  tries  to  set  himself 
right.  It  is  all  Mrs.  Charlton's  malice  and  slander ;  h<> 
knows  it  is  utterly  false,  he  will  never  think  of  her  spiteful 
words  again.  Vera  must  have  heard  him  repudiate  all  her 
insinuations— he  knows  it  was  purest  accident  took  her  that 
evening  to  Shaddeck — there  is  no  one  in  the  world  he  caret 
for  as  he  cares  for  her.  Everything  it  is  possible  to  say  he 
says,  and  says  <!gain.  Language  is,  after  all,  poor  and  bar- 
ren ;  he  grows  impatient  with  himself  as  he  talks,  almost  im- 
patient with  her.  For  she  stands  just  there,  so  still,  so  mute, 
so  downcast,  not  looking  at  him,  not  hearing  half  he  says,  it 
may  be — that  he  despairs. 

"  Vera,"  he  says,  "  are  you  listening  ?  Why  will  you  not 
answer  ?  Why  will  you  not  look  at  me  ?  Why  do  you  stand 
like  this  ?  " 

"  1  am  waiting  for  you  t?  go,"  she  says,  wearily  ;  '<  if  only 
you  would  go  I" 

He  must ^K>—%ovat  one  is  calling  him,  is  calling  he?.  The 
time  is  up.  "• 

*  And  we  must  part  like  this  1  Vera,  say  once,  once  only 
—you  do  not  blame  me  ?  " 

"  1  do  not  blame  you." 

**  And  you  do  not  think  I  believe  that  old  harridan's  abom- 
inable hes  ?     Say  do  you  lot  I  " 

"  I  do  not" 

She  repeats  hei  answers  like  an  automaton.  If  he  wciiFJ 
only  go  I 

"  And  you  will  write  to  me  ?  You  will  forget  this  ?  Good 
Heaven  I  ^«ow  niach  1  want  to  say  to  you,  and  here  is  the 


POST^SUPTtAU 


«>l 


lut  momi^tl    Good  by,  good-byt  they  are  coming.    Do 
not  let  them  sec  you  yet" 

He  crushes  both  her  hands  a  second,  writh  unconsciously 
cruel  force. 

**  Dear  little  Vera,  dear  little  pet,  dear  little  wife,  goo^ 
by  !  "  he  says,  and  is  gone. 

Dora  and  IX*.  Englehart  stand  just  without,  waiting.  Some 
thing  has  gone  wrong,  they  see  by  his  face.  No  questioni 
are  asked.  Perhaps  Dora  guesses  ;  she  is  pale,  and  looks 
ftightencd.  » 

"  Where  is  Vera  ?  "  she  asks. 

"  I  have  just  said  good-by,"  he  answers,  hurriedly.  **  Ii 
all  ready,  Englehart?  Good-by,  Miss  Lightwood."  He 
holds  out  his  hand.     "  Take  good  care  of  Vera." 

And  then  the  leave-taking  is  over,  and  half  dazed,  he  ii 
being  driven  rapidly  out  of  the  Charlton  grounds,  and  away 
to  the  St.  Ann's  station. 

*  «  41  «  «  «        « 

Late  that  night  in  New  York,  Captain  Ffrench  writes  a 
letter.  Vera's  white  face  and  crushed  look  haunt  him  with 
a  presentiment  of  fear  for  the  future  he  cannot  shake  off. 
The  letter  begins  "  My  dear  little  wife,"  and  is  as  gentle,  as 
tender,  as  hopeful,  as  warm  as  a  young  husband's  hrst  letter 
should  be.  It  is  long,  too,  and  reassures  her  again  and 
again  of  his  perfect  trust,  and  affection,  and  confidence  in 
her.  He  incloses  it  in  a  few  lines  to  Mr.  Charlton,  and  feels 
better  for  having  written  it.  Poor  little  Vera  I  but  she  will 
get  over  the  shock  in  a  da)  or  two.  Dora  will  know  what 
to  do  with  her,  what  to  say  to  her  ;  she  will  forget  i:  directly, 
and  be  all  right  again.  So,  when  to-morrow  couies  and  they 
steam  gail)  away  down  the  harbor,  he  has  thrown  off  all  pre- 
sentiments and  nervous  apprehensions  on  Vera's  account,  and 
leans  over  the  bulv  arks,  smoking;  glad  it  is  over,  glad  he  if 
GiT,  and  hoping — misanthropically  enough — he  may  not 
ft  single  woman  to  speak  to  until  he  comes  back. 


ao6 


**THE  GIRL  I  LEFT  BEHIND  MAT 


An  excinion  steamer  floats  by  them,  and  giret  the  cut 
ward  bound  three  cheers.  The  little  boat  is  gay  with  flagf 
and  streamers,  ladies  wave  their  handkerchiefs  from  the 
uppei  ;leck,  and  the  band  plays.  As  it  chances,  the  air  if 
"  The  Girl  I  Left  Behind  Me." 

Dr.  Englehart  looks  at  his  friend  and  laughs. 

"  Appropriate,"  he  says.  "  Do  you  know,  Dick,  I  neva 
said  good-by  to  your  little  bride,  after  all." 

Dick  Ffrench  sighs.  Poor  little  Veral  How  gay  thif 
pleasure-party  seems.  Yonder  is  a  girl,  in  a  white  hat  and 
feather,  who  looks  something  like  Vera,  and  s&e  I  she  if 
waving  her  handkerchief,  with  her  laughing  black  eyes  on  him. 
He  returns  the  salute.  What  is  Vera  about  just  now,  he 
wonders,  and  has  she  quite  got  over  Mrs.  Charlton's  brutal 
attack  ?  And  so  they  steam  away,  down  towards  Sandy 
Hook,  in  the  morning  sunshine,  to  the  merry  strains  of  ''  The 
Girl  I  Left  Behind  Me." 


CHAPTER  XXI. 


t% 


'«THK  GIRL  I   LEFT  BEHIND  MX. 


|H£  is  sitting  in  a  rustic  chair  down  amoi^  the  peaca 
and  plum  trees,  with  idly  folded  hands,  and  listless 
air.  Over  her  head  shines  the  mellow  sun  of  ft 
scented  September  afternoon ;  about  her  blows  the  soft  Sep- 
tember breezes;  all  around  her  the  fruit-trees  temptingly 
stand,  laden  down  with  their  golden  and  purple  globes.  On 
the  grass  at  ber  feet  lies  her  hat  r  near  it>  on  guard,  crouches 
Nero,  casting  now  and  then  a  wondering,  reproachful,  sleepy 
glance  at  his  apathetic  mistress.  Further  off,  the  grass  ii 
strewn  with  windfalls,  trophies  of  last  night's  storm.    But  th« 


••  TMM  GIML  I  LEFT  MMMtHD  MMJ' 


m 


It 

bt 
If 


ei 

111 

id 

IS 

n. 

tie 
al 
iy 

he 


a 

n 
El 


windfalls  lie  ungathered,  plums  and  peaches  hang  jnicy  and 
mellow  over  her  head  in  vain.  Their  charm  is  gone ;  they 
tempt  her  not ;  lassitude  holds  her,  as  she  sits  here  now,  with 
the  sunlight  sifting  through  the  fluttering  leaves  overhead— so 
she  has  sat  for  fully  an  hour ;  so  she  has  sat  for  hours  and 
hours,  in  the  long  fortnight  that  is  gone. 

There  are  girls,  simply  and  wholesomely  brought  up,  tall 
tnd  well  grown,  womanly  enough  in  appearance,  who  are  yet 
the  veriest  children  in  heart ;  who  can  enjoy  a  game  of  puss 
in  the  corner,  or  blind-man's  buff,  with  as  hearty  and  thor- 
ough a  zest  at  sixteen  as  at  six.  Vera  is  one  of  these — ^Vera 
has  been  one  of  these,  but  a  subtle  change  has  begun — is  at 
work  daily,  insidiously,  and  the  Vera  of  two  weeks  ago  ii  not 
the  Vera  of  to-day. 

So  the  grapes  hang  unplucked,  the  peaches  drop  uneaten. 
Nero  lies  unromped  with,  and  she  sits  here  all  the  day  idle. 
She  is  thinking.  In  all  her  sixteen  years  of  life  she  has  not 
thought  as  much  as  she  has  done  during  the  last  two  weeks. 
She  is  thinking  for  herself.  Dora  will  never  be  the  keeper 
of  her  conscience  more.  The  slow  change  from  frolicsome 
girlhood  to  thoughtful,  earnest  womanhood  has  begun — is  far 
advanced.  She  has  been  standing  on  the  hitheiward  side  of 
Mr.  Longfellow's  allegorical  brook,  and  a  brutal  hand  has 
pushed  her  across  years  before  her  time.  She  has  eaten  of  the 
fruit  of  the  tree  of  knowledge,  and  its  taste  is  bitter.  She  shrinks 
with  terror ;  she  burns  with  shame ;  she  covers  her  hot  face 
with  her  hands,  as  she  recalls  Mrs.  Charlton's  words.  To  the 
last  day  of  her  life  they  will  ring  in  her  ears,  harsh,  stem, 
merciless — true — to  the  last  day  of  her  life  she  will  see  Rich- 
ird  Ffrendi  as  she  saw  him  then,  standing  erect  and  noble, 
fighting  her  battles,  defending  her  fair  fame.  It  is  so  cruelly 
true — the  stab  lies  there.  She  was  fond  of  him,  and  thought 
no  more  of  hiding  that  fondness  than  'f  he  had  been  ner 
brother ;  she  had  followed  him  like  his  shadow,  and  nevei 
knew  that  it  was  unmaidenly  or  wrong,  or  a  thing  to  be 


90i 


••m  QUtL  I  LMPT  MKMIKD  JM.* 


ashamed  of;  she  did  go  to  Shaddeck  Light,  and  remain  witil 
him  there,  with  never  a  thought  of  what  the  world  might  say. 
She  has  thought  no  evil ;  she  knows  nothing  of  the  world  or 
its  ways — inclosed  in  a  cloister,  she  could  hardly  have  led  a 
more  hidden,  a  more  innocent  life.  And  through  that  inno- 
cent ignorance  a  great  and  cruel  wrong  has  been  done,  that 
nothing  in  this  world  can  ever  set  right.  Brave,  loyal,  chiv- 
alrous Captain  Dick  has  married  her,  caring  nothing  for  her, 
to  stop  the  wagging  world's  tongue.  Now  she  knows  why  he 
left  it  to  Dora  to  tell  her — why  his  note  from  New  York  held 
only  those  four  cold  lines — why  he  would  not  come  until  the 
very  last  moment — why  care  and  trouble  darkened  his  face  on 
his  wedding-day.  She  knows  it  all — all.  He  has  stood 
yonder  and  defended  her  against  her  foe — yes,  but  she  can 
count  nothing  on  that ;  it  is  Captain  Dick's  generous  way  to 
fight  the  battles  of  the  losing  side.  He  may  believe  it — he 
must  believe  it.  How  can  it  be  otherwise,  seen  as  she  seei 
it  now  ?  Her  conduct  from  first  to  last  has  been  such  as  to 
make  her  hate  herself  for  very  shame.  He  has  thought  her 
in  love  with  him — not  foolishly  fond  of  him,  but  in  love  with 
him  ;  he  thinks  she  followed  him  that  night  to  Shaddeck  on 
purpose  to  stay — on  purpose  to  make  him  marry  her.  Oh  1 
even  here  by  herself,  it  is  too  shameful.  She  covers  her  face 
ml  shrinks  from  the  wistful  eyes  of  the  dog.  Nothing  is, 
they  say,  but  thinking  makes  it  so.  She  has  brooded  over 
this  until  not  a  doubt  remains — all  that  Mrs.  Charlton  has 
sa:d  he  believes ;  and  to  save  her,  and  forced  by  Dora,  he  ha* 
married  her,  and  sacrificed  his  whole  life. 

She  sits  here  thinking  this,  as  she  has  thought  it  over  and 
over  again.  She  is  fast  becoming  morbid,  she  avoids  her 
•ister,  she  cannot  meet  the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Charlton,  she  shrinkt 
from  her  host.  Mrs.  Charlton  is  stiU  here,  for  Vera  has  not 
•aid  one  word  to  Dora  of  all  that  has  passed.  Nothing  could 
mark  the  change  in  her  more  sharply  that  this.  In  ail  hci 
life  she  has  never  had  a  thought,  a  secret  from  Dora,  but  shi 


I 


^^TUB  0IRL  I  LEfT  BEtmiD  ME.» 


««• 


hmi  kept  her  own  counsel  here.  It  is  partly  because  she  feels 
she  would  die  of  shame  to  speak  of  it  even  to  her,  partly  be* 
cause  she  knows  her  enemy  would  have  to  leave  Charlton  ar 
hour  after  her  revelation. 

And  Vera  is  a  generous  foe.  She  does  not  blame  the 
woman  much.  She  has  thought  it  her  duty  to  apprise  Captain 
Dick  of  the  truth,  she  believes  her  own  story,  what  does  her 
going  or  staying  signify  ?  So  she  says  nothing,  and  falh  after 
ti  It  first  paroxysm  of  despair,  into  this  abnormal  state  of  list 
less  moping,  and  wanders  away  by  herself,  heedless  of  book, 
or  work,  or  dog,  or  piano,  and  sits  about  in  damp,  green 
places,  at  the  risk  of  premature  rheumatism,  and  broods, 
and  broods  over  her  own  deadly  sins  the  lon&  warm  days 
through. 

She  has  received  Captain  Dick's  farewell  letter,  but  she 
has  not  read  it.  She  has  looked  with  dreary  eyes  at  the  large 
"  Vera,"  written  on  the  white  envelope,  and  takes  it  upstairs, 
and  laid  it  away  in  her  work-box  unread.  She  knows  what  ii 
in  it,  or  thinks  she  does.  What  is  the  use  of  going  over  all 
that  again  ?  She  takes  off  the  wedding-ring  from  her  slim 
third  finger,  and  shuts  it  up  in  its  pink  jeweler's  cotton  once 
more.  There,  in  its  pristine  glitter  let  it  He,  she  will  not  wear 
it.  She  never  wants  to  see  Captain  Dick  as  long  as  she 
lives.  He  despises  her — he  has  left  her,  glad  to  get  away, 
fliinking  her  everything  that  is  forward,  and  unfeminine,  and 
disgraceful.  She  will  never  write  to  him,  never  think  of  him, 
never  care  for  him,  never  speak  of  him,  her  whole  life-long. 

Dora  sees  the  dismal  change,  and  tries  her  best  to  find  out 
the  cause.  But  Vera  is  mute.  Dora  has  betrayed  her,  it  ii 
all  Dora's  doing — she  will  never  trust  her  again.  So  Misi 
Lightwood  gives  her  two  or  three  hearty  ratings  for  her  mop* 
ing  fits,  and  sets  it  all  down  to  reaction  after  excitement,  and 
the  abs'tnce  of  her  idol.  It  will  pass  and  the  child  will  take 
no  harm.  Truth  to  tell.  Miss  Lightwood  has  so  much  to 
think  of.  and  see  about,  these  ((olden  fVptember  days,  thai 


a  10 


••  THM,   GIRL  I  LEFT  MMMINi^ 


ihe  has  no  time  to  exorcise  Vera'i  blue  devili.  She  ii  doft 
cted  a  great  deal  with  Mr.  Charlton  ;  there  are  long,  seriouf 
conversations  in  the  study,  long  drives,  long  letters  to  write, 
and  to  read.  "  Aj.  the  bow  unto  the  arrow,"  so  is  Theodora 
Lightwood  to  the  r.iaster  of  Charlton.  What  is  it  all  about, 
Vera  wonders,  ai.nlessly,  and  is  Dora  going  back  to  New 
York,  and  when  are  her  studies  to  begin?  Mrs.  Charlton 
wonders  too,  and  more,  perhaps,  to  the  purpose.  She  showi 
no  symptoms  of  speedy  departure,  and  makes  herself  re- 
markably at  home  in  this  pleasant  country  house. 

But  the  second  week  of  September  brings  a  revolution,  an 
upsetting  of  all  things,  and  the  dawn  of  a  new  dynasty.  AU 
of  a  sudden  Miss  Lightwood  announces  at  dinner  one  day, 
her  intention  of  going  up  to  New  York  on  the  next.  Mr. 
Charlton  looks  conscious,  and  lays  open  the  hidden  articu« 
lations  of  the  turkey  he  is  carving  with  something  less  than 
his  usual  skill.  Mrs.  Charlton  eyes  her  foe  across  the  table 
with  a  steady,  suspicious  gaze.  Vera  looks  up  with  sudder. 
interest. 

<'  Going  to  New  York  ?    Take  me,  Dot.    I  should  like  to 

go." 

Dora  glances  at  her.  She  is  pale  and  thin,  and  looks  ai 
if  she  needed  a  change.    Then  she  turns  to  Mr.  Charlton. 

"  It  willjdo  her  good,"  he  says ;  "  I  think  you  will  have  to 
take  her.  i  am  responsible,  you  know,"  with  a  smile,  '*  for 
her  safe  keeping." 

"  Very  well,"  says  Dora.  "  Pack  up  this  evening,  Vera — 
not  all  your  things,  you  know — just  a  dress  or  two.  We  wiU 
go  by  the  morning  train." 

By  the  morning  train  they  go,  and  Mrs.  Charlton  ia 
thdtelaine.  But  her  host  keeps  ^ut  of  her  way  ;  he  spends 
most  of  his  time  in  St.  Ann's,  or  about  his  farms — his  avoid- 
ance is  so  pointed,  indeed,  that  she  cannot  fail  to  perceive 
it.  Still,  as  long  as  she  is  not  absolutely  ordered  out  of  tha 
hoitii  ,  m  the  iiouse  she  is  resolved  to  stay.     Miss  Lightwood 


••  TBE  GIRL  I  LEFT  BEHIND  3iMJ» 


an 


b  gone  just  five  days  when  Mr.  Charlton  follows,  lliis  ii 
startling.  Dark  suspicions,  vague  hitherto,  b.gin  to  take 
real  and  tangible  form,  and  in  less  than  another  ^eek  are 
confirmed. 

One  morning  the  New  York  Herald  is  laid  beside  her 
plate,  smelling  all  damp  and  nasty  of  printers'  ink,  and.opeo 
ing  it,  the  first  thing  her  eyes  rest  on  is  this  : 

** Charlton— LiGHTWooD. — On  the  lath  Inst,  at  the  Wlndtai 
Hotel,  the  Honorable  Robkrt  Rutherford  Charlton,  ez-Gorernoi 
of  Iowa,  to  Thkodora  Elizabeth  Lightwood,  of  New  York.** 

Married  I  The  paper  swims  before  her — she  sits  and 
stares  blankly  at  the  printed  words.  Married !  actually  mar- 
ried I  That  bold-faced  little  hussy !  that  designing  little 
trickster  I  that  c  •'afty  little  cat !  She  has  secured  the  step* 
son  for  her  sister,  the  step-father  for  herself  1  Her  worst 
fears  are  realized.  All  has  gone  to  Dora  Lightwood — 
she  and  Eleanor  are  nowhere  in  the  race.  And  it  is  all 
Eleanor's  fault  Charlton  is  no  longer  a  place  for  her  ;  no 
house  that  calls  Dora  Lightwood  mistress  can  ever  for  one 
night  afford  shelter  to  her.  If  she  had  had  any  doubt  on 
the  subject,  a  note  that  comes  to  her  that  very  afternoon 
dispels  it.  It  is  from  the  new  lady  and  mistress  of  Charlton 
Place,  and  is  an  emphatic  writ  of  ejec:aient. 


!• 


**  The  Crescent  City  will  be  looking  its  loyeliest  this  nice  Septenbcv 
weather,"  writes  gayly  the  bride.  *'  I  know  how  you  hate  the  North- 
have  I  not  heard  you  My  so  ?  Do  not  sacriBce  your  ccmfort  any  longer 
by  remaining  in  it.  I  quite  envy  you  the  remainder  of  this  month  in 
your  native  city.  How  rejoiced  Nelly  will  be  to  see  you  1  Give  her 
our  love.  At  some  future  time  I  intend  to  invite  Kir  to  make  a  second 
visit  to  Charlton.  My  husband  is  well,  and  joins  with  me  in  wishing 
you  a  pleasant  return  journey  to  the  South.  We  go  home  very  soon, 
and  would  rather  be  spared  the  pain  of  saying  good-by — you  understand  7 
Batween  relatives  partmg  is  so  sad  t    And  just  now  wa  are  so  happy 


JIJ 


•• 


TOE  GIRL  I  LEFT  BBBiND  JK&» 


tlMt  we  canaoC  b«ur  to  tkbk  of  even  the  ilightesC  clood  that  wQl  art 
our  felicity. 

"Youn,  etc., 

"  Theodora  E.  Liohtwood  Cua&lton.** 


October,  and  late  in  the  month.  A  golden-gray  sky,  sun- 
less but  bright,  lying  low  over  the  gray  sea.  Orange  and 
crimson,  the  hemlocks  and  maples  stand,  gorgeous  in  their 
fall  dress.  Windfalls  no  longer  strew  the  grounds,  peach 
and  plum  trees  are  stripped.  Purple  bunches  of  grapei 
tempt  Vera  no  longer,  but  Vera  is  here,  bright  and  brown, 
and  looking  pretty  well  recovered  from  her  post-nuptial 
despair.  Life,  after  all,  is  not  quite  at  an  end  at  sixteen 
and  a  half,  even  if  one  has  made  a  dreadful  mistake.  Mis- 
takes may  be  mended,  one  may  live  and  learn,  the  world  if 
full  of  pleasant  places,  and  kindly  people.  She  has  found 
this  out  in  her  month  of  travel  with  Dot  and  Mr.  Charlton, 
For  t.  ey  have  taken  her  with  them ;  she  is  no  incumbrance, 
and  her  dark,  silently-pleading  eyes  are  irresistible.  She  hai 
seen  Niagara  and  the  Thousand  Isles,  and  dear  old,  gray, 
historic  Quebec,  and  quaint  French  Montreal,  and  absolutely 
foigoUen  more  than  once  that  such  a  being  as  Captain  Dick 
Ffren-ih  exists,  that  she  is  what  Dot  calls  a  "respectable 
married  woman."  She  wears  no  ring;  she  is  intioduced  as 
Miss  Martinez  ;  she  insists  upon  it  so  passionately  that  they 
yield.  She  wears  long  dresses,  lovely  light  silks  with  trains^ 
and  every  one  she  meets  smiles  down  frank  f  into  the  glad, 
blight,  eager,  beautiful  Southern  eyes.  It  is  a  happy  time,  a 
royal  time.  Life  opens  before  her  in  a  vista  of  infinite  po»- 
sibilities. 

Dora  spends  money  like  a  queen.  Mr.  Charlton  dwells  in 
8  seventh  heaven,  and  grows  young  again.  He  is  a  hand- 
some old  gentlemen  at  all  times  ;  kindly,  too,  when  not 
crossed ;  he  is  proud  and  fond  of  his  young  wife,  without 
making  an  uxorious  fool  of  himself^  and  is  ready  to  indulge 


«• 


TOE  GIRL  J  LMFT  BEHiND   HE," 


««3 


ley 
tnSf 
ad, 


in 

id. 
lot 


Vera  in  evety  whim.  So  they  enjoy  themselves  all  through 
September,  and  far  into  yellow  October.  Now  it  is  the  last 
we'jk  of  the  munth,  and  Vera  sits  here  on  the  lustic  chau 
alone.  Once  more  Nero  lies  al  her  feet,  negl^^cted  no  longey 
but  patted,  and  made  much  of,  and  conversed  with  on  topicf 
suited  to  his  doggish  intellect,  for  Vera  knows  how  to  adapt 
her  conversation  to  her  company.  A  book  is  in  her  hand  ; 
she  reads  ({uietly,  only  looking  now  and  then  to  follow  the 
flight  of  a  bird,  or  the  dizzy  boom  of  a  laden  bee.  Her  eyes 
are  bright,  a  fresh  color  is  in  her  cheeks,  she  laughs  outright 
once  at  something  in  her  book,  and  it  is  the  sound  of  this 
laughter  that  guides  another  lady  to  the  spot.  A  lady  in  a 
pretty  dinner  dress  as  blue  as  her  eyes,  perfumed,  jewelled, 
fair  to  behold,  the  Hon.  Mrs.  R.  R.  Charlton.  She  smiles 
slightly  as  Vera  laughs  aloud  a  second  time,  a  satisfied  smile. 
Dick  Ffrench  is  well  away,  and  his  bride  is  not  breaking  her 
heart  for  his  sake,  that  is  sure.  But  for  all  that  Dora  does 
not  quite  understand  the  change  in  her  sister  since  his  de- 
parture. In  many  ways  she  is  completely  changed.  She 
never  speaks  of  him — she  upon  whose  tongue  the  name  of  Cap* 
tain  Dick  was  forever.  In  her  brightest  moods  she  darkens, 
frowns,  grows  silent,  if  he  is  recalled.  She  refuses  to  speak 
of  their  parting  ;  she  refuses  to  discuss  her  marriage  at  a.U. 

She  has  grown  reticent — she  holds  herself  entirely  aloof 
from  all  gentlemen,  with  a  sort  of  proud,  shrinking  shyness. 
Like  Undine  on  her  wedding-day,  she  seems  to  have  found 
her  soul. 

"  Your  book  appears  to  be  amusing,  my  dear,"  says  Mrs. 
Charlton.  **  You  will  soon  have  to  give  up  novels,  however, 
and  takr  to  the  nine  parts  of  speech,  an  i  trisyllables.  Misi 
Lansing  will  be  here  next  week." 

Miss  I^nsing  is  a  very  accomplished  English  governess, 
engaged  in  Canada,  perfect  in  music  and  modem  Unguaget. 
Vera  looks  up  with  interest. 

*'  I  am  fi;lad  of  that,"  she  sayi,  **  vtiy  glad.    It  is  tiiiM  I 


a  14 


•*  THE  GIRL  I  LEFT  BEHIND  ME.^ 


began,  aiid  I  mean  to  do  my  best.    No  one  can  be 
ashamed  of  her  ignorance  than  I  am — no  one  has  more  need.** 

Hei  voice  falters  a  little,  she  turns  away.  Her  sister  lookfl 
at  her  keenly. 

*'  It  is  almost  time  we  were  hearing  from  Captain  I  /rench,* 
ghe  says,  abruptly. 

There  is  no  reply. 

"Vera,  what  was  in  that  letter  he  sent  you  from  New 
Vork?" 

"I  do  not  know." 

*'  I  do  not  know.  You  need  not  Jook  incredulous — ^it  if 
true.  It  is  upstairs  in  my  writing-desk.  I  have  never 
opened  it." 

"  Never  opened  it !    Never  opened  Dick  Ffrench's  letter  I " 

"  No.  What  was  the  use  ?  I  know  what  is  in  it — four 
formal  lires.  I  would  rather  keep  it  as  it  is.  Some  day  I 
may  read  it.  Dot,  you — ^you  have  not  told  Miss  Lansing 
that " 

"That  her  pupil  is  married — not  likely.  And  no  one 
here  knows  except  Harriet,  and  I  have  given  her  to  under- 
stand that  if  she  tells  tales  she  goes.  It  is  best  so,  as  next 
spring  you  mu£t  go  to  school.  Mr.  Charlton  and  I  are  going 
abroad  in^  April  to  remain  the  whole  year,  and  Charlton  is  to 
be  transformed.  I  intend  to  add  a  wing  there,  for  a  billiard 
and  ball-room — opposite,  on  the  south  side,  shall  be  a  conser* 
ratory.  A  few  more  chambers  will  also  be  needed.  Each 
year,  from  September  to  Christmas,  I  intend  to  fill  the  house 
with  guests,  and  for  the  first  time  in  ray  life  enjoy  my  life. 
Oh,  Vera,  they  may  say  what  they  like,  but  only  the  rich 
live.  The  poor  exist,  drag  out  th^^ir  days  somehow,  but 
wealth  is  the  golden  key  that  unlocks  the  world,  and  aU 
therein.  I  think  I  never  knew  what  it  wai  to  be  really 
happy  before." 

Vera  eyes  hsr  wistfully. 


^TBE  GIRL  1  LEFT  BMMiNA  MM^^ 


ws 


"And  you  are  happy.  Dot  ?** 

'*  As  happy  as  a  queen — I  can  think  of  no  greater  tuippi* 
ness  than  that.  I  am  proud  of  my  husband.  I  would  not 
exchange  him  for  your  Captain  Dick,  no,  nor  for  any  man  1 
ever  saw.  I  am  fond  of  my  hiisband — he  is  awfully  good  to 
me,  Vera  ;  he  denies  me  nothing,  and  he  is  richer  than»  even 
1  supposed.  And  I  am  happy,  happy,  happy  I  I  would 
not  exchange  places  with  any  woman  in  America." 

And  Dfia  meant  it.  To  the  full  extent  of  her  capacity 
for  happiness,  she  is  happy.  How  this  marriage  came  about 
who  is  to  tell  ?  It  is  an  idea  certainly  that  never  of  itsell 
would  have  entered  Mr.  Charlton's  head.  But  if  a  young 
girl,  all  unknown  to  herself,  gives  her  heart  unasked,  and — 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  and  if  tearful  azure  eyes,  and  lovely 
light  hair,  and  a  faltering,  broken  voice,  are  brought  into 
play,  what  is  an  elderly  gentleman,  easily  fooled  and  flattered, 
to  do  ?  They  are  married,  and  Dora  is  devoted  to  him,  and 
means  to  be  a  good  little  wife,  and  make  him  happy.  She 
can  wind  him  round  her  finger,  he  gives  himself  up  to  the 
liren  spell  of  the  enchantress,  and  never  dreams  of  saying  no 
to  his  little  missis.  Thie  gray  mare,  at  Charlton,  it  is  clear 
from  the  first,  will  be  the  better  horse. 

"  He  is  late  for  dinner,"  says  Dora,  looking  at  her  watch. 
"What  detains  him,  I  wonder?  He  said  he  would  return  by 
the  four  o'clock  boat,  without  fail."    . 

"  Where  has  he  gone  ?  " 

"  To  New  York,  on  important  business.  I  may  tell  you, 
I  suppose — to  make  his  will.  It  is  always  a  wise  precaution. 
He  should  have  been  here  two  hours  ago." 

"  Some  one  is  coming  now,"  says  Vera. 

Over  the  hard  white  road,  and  up  the  long  sweep  ci 
avenue,  a  horseman  rides— rides,  too,  at  a  furious  pace. 

husband,"  says  Dora,     he  never 


my 


gallops 


lik^  thaf. 


») 


It  is  not  her  husband,   it   is  a  mar.   fror»  St.   Ann':^ 


2l6 


•*  TBE  GIRL  I  LEFT  BEHIND  MM.^ 


dusty,  pale,  excited.  She  rises  from  her  9eat,  and  calli  la 
him. 

"  Do  you  wish  to  see  me  ? "  she  asks.  "  Have  yon  • 
message  for  the  house  ? ' 

<'I  want  to  see  Mrs.  Charlton,"  be  anr  »ei8,  touching 
his  cap  and  looking  anxious.  *'If  either  of  you  yimng 
ladles- 


» 


"/am  Mrs.  Charlton." 

He  falls  back  a  pace,  and  is  silent.     Dora  comes  up  close, 

"  Something  is  wrong,"  she  exclaims.  "  What  is  it  > 
Speak  quickly  ! " 

"  Our  people  sent  me,"  the  man  says,  in  a  hurried,  breatb 
less  sort  of  way ;  "  they  are  coming  as  fast  as  they  can.  1 
was  to — to  break  it  to  you." 

"  Break  what  ?  Be  quick,  I  say  I "  cries  Dora,  stamping 
her  foot. 

"  Miss — ma'am,  there's  been  an  accident  to  the  steamer — 
an  explosion — not  much  of  an  explosion,  but  two  person! 
we  hurt,  and  one  is — is " 

"  Killed  !  "  cries  Vera. 

"  Killed,  miss.  And  I'm  sorry  to  say,  miss>-4na'am,  ] 
mean — that  that  one  is " 

No  need  to  say  it.  The  feet  of  those  who  bear  him  are 
at  his  gates.  He  lies  on  a  c^oor,  all  stark  and  ghastly,  the 
dead  face'^overed,  who  wa»  only  this  morning  a  hale  and 
apright  gentlema-^.  And  Tl  eod  jra  Charlton,  six  neeka  "^ 
wife,  is  a  widow 


«  WHES  DAY  IS  DONM** 


ai7 


CHAPTER  XXIL 


"WHEN   DAY   IS   DONE." 


[CVEMBEil  is  here — is  here  in  rain,  and  wind  and 
mist.  Overhead  there  is  a  leaden,  low-lying,  fast- 
drifting  sky — far  away  there  is  a  sea,  black,  tosi* 
ing,  white-capped.  The  wind  has  a  sighing,  banshee  soit  of 
shriek  as  it  whistles  about  the  gables,  and  wrestles  with  and 
buffets  the  trees.  The  rain  patters,  patters  against  the  glass ; 
it  is  chill,  too,  with  a  touch  of  winter  in  the  blast. 

Vera  stands  at  her  bedroom  window  and  gazes  out.  It  is 
late  in  the  afternoon,  and  the  house  is  as  still  as  a  tomb. 
Her  eyes  wander  away  from  the  desolation  of  rain-beaten 
landscape  to  the  far  sea  line.  Yonder  is  Shaddeck  Light, 
nearly  blotted  out  in  a  whirl  of  rain  and  sea-fog.  It  is  ten- 
antless  now,  even  Daddy  is  no  longer  there.  She  turns  from 
it  with  aversion — if  she  could  only  blot  it  out  of  her  memory, 
out  of  existence  1  How  the  trees  are  twisting  and  tossing 
about  wild,  green  arms  in  the  fierce  embrace  of  the  gale. 

*'  A  wind  that  shrieks  to  the  window-p«iit, 
A  wind  in  the  chimney  moaning." 

She  quotes  dreamily.  How  wild  it  must  be  out  tliere  on 
Shaddeck  Bay,  among  those  wicked-looking  litk:le  white 
caps  I  Wliac  short  work  they  would  make  of  the  Nixie. 
And  what  a  clean  white  death  it  would  be,  so  much  better 
than  half  what  the  world  dies  of — long,  loathsome,  foul,  dis- 
ease. 

Death  is  in  the  girl's  mind  to-day — has  been  the  chief 
thought  in  it  for  six  days  past  They  have  buried  their  dead 
out  of  tijrht,  and  life  goes  on  without  him.     It  if  a  desolatr 


3l8 


•«  WHEN  DAY  IS  DlNA* 


thought*  -Uiey  cany  us  to  the  grave,  and  life  goes  ^n  with* 
out  us.  Just  the  same  to  those  who  held  us  most  dear — s 
gap  — &  missing  face  and  voice  for  a  little,  then  gently  ob- 
livion, and  we  are  forgotten.  But  it  is  too  soon  for  foiget« 
ting  here  yet.  Vera's  mind  is  full  of  him.  How  awfully 
sudden  it  all  was  1  Hundreds  of  railway  accidents,  of  steam> 
boat  explosions,  happen,  and  we  shudder  for  a  moment,  and 
they  pass  from  our  memory ;  but  some  time  one  comet 
home  to  as,  and  stands  cruelly  apart  forever,  from  all  the 

rest.     *'  In  the  midst  of  life "     By  land  and  sea  there 

are  disasters.  By  sea  1  Does  this  surging  November  storm 
howl  out  mere  on  the  ocean  where  he  is,  and  is  he  in  dan- 
ger ?  A  cold,  creeping  sense  of  fear  comes  over  her  ;  she 
has  said  she  never  wants  to  look  on  his  face  again — what  if 
she  never  does  ? 

"  Vera,  my  dear,"  a  voice  breaks  in,  "  Mrs.  Charlton  says 
she  wishes  you  would  go  to  her.  She  is  in  the  study,  sorting 
papers,  and  wants  you  to  help  her,  I  think." 

It  is  Miss  Lansing,  the  governess.  Vera  turns  from  the 
window,  relieved  to  find  her  dreary  train  of  thought  broken 
up.  She  descends  to  what  a  week  ago  was  the  master's 
study,  and  finds  her  sister  sitting  at  a  desk,  with  bundles  of 
letters  and  papers  before  her.  In  aer  trailing  crape  and 
bombazine^  Dora  looks  fairer  and  frailer  than  ever ;  on  her 
golden  haiiv  is  a  widow's  cap,  and  her  pale  blue  eyes  are 
Sided  and  washed  out  lath  weeping.  For  Dora  has  wept 
real  and  honest  tears  of  sincere  regret.  He  was  so  good  to 
her,  so  fond  of  her,  so  fond  of  her.  As  much  love  as  her 
poor  little  flimsy  heart  has  to  give,  she  has  given  to  the  gen- 
erous gentleman  who  made  her  his  wife. 

His  death  has  been  a  blow,  a  bitter  blow,  softened,  it  may 
be — although  slie  will  not  own  it  even  to  herself — by  the 
(act  that  he  has  left  her  everything,  absolutely  everything 
The  will  has  been  read,  and  there  is  no  horde  of  hungry  re 
Utions  to  dispute  it,  to  talk  of  undue  influence,  of  imsound 


«  WHEN  DAY  IS  DONE* 


JI9 


mind,  etc.  It  leaves  her  everything.  Mrs.  Charlton  and 
Eleanor  are  not  even  mentioned;  to  Vera  is  left  ten  thou- 
sand dollars.  AH  the  rest — a  noble  inheritance — goes  to  his 
beloved  wife,  Theodora ;  and  at  her  decease,  to  his  step-son, 
Richard  Caryl  Ffrench,  should  he  survive  her.  Will  it  be 
believed  ?  Some  latent  sense  of  justice  in  the  littl^  lady 
herself  has  been  the  instigation  of  this,  coupled  with  the 
hope  that  her  sister  may  benefit  by  it.  In  her  secret  heart 
she  is  convinced  her  life  is  not  likely  to  be  a  long  one— 
when  sha  goes  she  cannot  take  all  that  gold  with  her,  and 
has  an  idea  that  if  what  preachers  say  be  true,  it  might  meli 
if  she  could.  This  is  why  Richard  Caryl  Ffrench,  vigorous 
in  strong  young  manhood,  stands  a  chance  of  hr  ving  his  own 
again,  when  Mrs.  Charlton  is  done  with  it.  Sh.e  has  cast  a 
rapid  glance  over  her  future,  remote  and  present.  She  v/ill 
not  marry  again — that  to  begin  with.  She  is  rich  and  free, 
and  young  and  pretty  ;  she  asks  no  more  of  life.  To  marry 
again  would  be  madness.  She  will  remain  at  Charlton  with 
Vera  and  the  governess,  this  winter,  as  she  oiiginaliy  in. 
tended,  and  go  to  Europe  in  the  spring.  A  year  or  two 
abroad,  and  then,  with  weeds  laid  aside,  and  health  improved, 
she  can  return  and  make  the  most  of  life.  She  is  doomed — 
that  she  knows ;  heart-disease,  slow,  insidious,  but  fatally 
sure,  is  doing  its  work.  Night  will  come  for  her  more 
quickly  even  than  it  comes  for  most,  but  her  day  shall  be  as 
gunny  as  she  can  make  it.  A  little  heathen  is  Dora  Charl- 
ton, though  she  goes  to  church  respectably  enough,  every 
tine  Sunday,  and  calls  herself  a  miserable  sinner,  with  the 
best  of  them.  It  is  probably  the  truest  thing  she  says  the 
week  through ;  an  out  and  out  little  pagan  she  is — Mam- 
mon, fashion,  dress,  pleasure — **  these  be  thy  gods,  O 
Israel  I " 

She  turns  from  her  work  as  Vera  »nterfr— Vera,  locking 
long,  and  slim,  f jid  black,  in  ber  heavy  mourning  robe. 

**  Oh  I  Vera,  child,"  she  says,  fretfuMy,  "  ymi  mutt  hely 


••  WHEN  DAY  IS  DONE,^ 


me.  I  grow  so  tired  wading  through  all  these  dreary  pAp«ii 
and  letters,  and  finding  out  what  to  bum  and  what  to  keep. 
I  cannot  ask  Miss  Lansing,  a  stranger,  of  whom  I  know  no- 
thing. Such  quantities  of  bills  and  receipts,  and  Oid  letters 
— ray  head  is  splitting.  All  the  important  papers,  deeds, 
mortgages,  and  that,  Mr.  Bennet  has.  fiut  most  of  this  is  rub- 
bish— I  wonder  why  people  will  keep  old  letters.  Here  is  a 
compartment  of  the  desk  I  have  not  gone  through  yet— do 
you  take  them,  and  tell  me  what  they  are.  I  want  to  gat 
through  before  dark." 

She  gives  Vera  her  two  nands  full  of  papers.  The  girl 
takes  them,  seats  herself  by  a  window,  and  begins  her  task. 
Some  of  the  letters  are  yellow  with  age — she  is  vividly  in- 
terested. Here  is  a  small,  flat  package  from  a  school-fellow, 
dated  thirty-five  years  ago,  the  ink  nearly  obliterated.  Here 
is  a  bundle  tied  with  blue  ribbon — they  are  from  his  wife, 
from  Dick  Ffrench's  mother.  Her  color  rises,  she  looks  at 
them  a  moment,  touched  and  interested,  but  she  does  not 
read  them.     She  takes  them  over  to  her  sister. 

"  They  are  from  the  first  Mrs.  Charlton,  Dot,"  she  saySj 
and  goes  quietly  back. 

But  Dot  is  not  sentimental — not  in  the  least.  She  glances 
curiously  over  one  or  two,  then  throws  the  poor  little  pile 
into  the  vjaste- paper  basket.  Only  a  dead  woman's  letters 
to  a  deadnftian.  Why  should  they  cumber  the  earth,  when 
writer  and  reader  are  dust  ? 

Bills,  receipts — it  is  as  Dot  said,  the  accumulated  rubbish 
of  years.  More  old  letters  sere  and  withered,  like  autumn 
leaves.  It  is  darkening  fast  outside,  but  she  is  nearly 
through— only  one  letter  left  now.  Not  an  old  one  this 
time  ;  the  writing  is  fresh,  and  black,  and  bold.  Hei  heart 
gives  a  great  leap  ;  she  knows  that  hand.  She  takes  it  up 
with  a  curious  sort  of  reluctant  tenderness,  and  gentlv 
touches  with  her  fingers  the  large,  none  too  legible  chiiog 
raphy.     "  Nr'^  York.  Aug.    ath  ; "  it  was  written  just  bcfoiv 


••  WHEN  DAY  IS  DONE, 


Ml 


Ait 

Len 


his  marriage*,  "  My  Dear  Governor  ** — "  Yours  afTectionateljr, 
R.  C.  Ffrench."  And  here  is  kcr  own  name — one*,  twice, 
four  times.  Shall  she  reivd  it — shall  she  give  it  to  Dot  ? 
Surely  she  has  a  right  to  read  it.  Right  or  not,  she  will 
read  it,  for  her  eye  has  caught  something  that  in  a  second 
turns  the  balance.  She  draws  nearer  to  the  waning  light, 
spreads  it  out,  an«l  begins  to  read. 

It  is  the  epistle  Richard  Ffrench  wrote  to  his  step-father, 
after  the  receipt  of  Vera's  unique  love-letter,  and  which  so 
angered  Mr.  Charlton.  It  has  been  thrust  here  out  of  sight, 
anc  this  is  how  it  has  come  to  light.  If  Dora  had  met  it,  no 
harm  would  have  been  done  ;  but  Fate,  with  her  usual  grin 
sense  of  humor,  has  come  to  the  front,  taken  the  matter  ir 
her  own  hands,  and  here  is  the  result.  Alas,  and  alas  !  why 
do  we  ever  write  letters  ?  They  rise  up  against  us,  saying 
things  we  never  meant  to  make  them  say,  writing  us  down 
asses  in  the  face  of  the  world,  for  our  besotted  folly  in  pen- 
ning them.  Tell  your  mistress  you  love  her,  tell  your  friend 
all  you  have  is  his,  but  tell  it  not  in  black  and  white.  In 
courts  of  law,  in  public  prints,  on  the  jeering  tongues  of 
street-gamins,  they  will  stand  in  judgment  against  you,  and 
make  you  out  a  liar  and  a  fool. 

And  Vera  reads,  and  reads  on : 

"  The  more  I  think  of  it  the  more  convinced  am  I  that  the 
sacrifice  is  at  once  absurd  and  unnecessary." "Over- 
whelmed by  the  tears  and  reproaches  of  Miss  Lightwood. ' 

"  Having  pledged  myself  to  her  sister,  at  any  cost  to 

myself  I  shall  keep  my  word." "  I  feel,  when  too  late  to 

draw  back,  that  this  nonsensical  marriage  is  utterly  unneces* 

iary." "  To  like  her  as  a  child  is  easy  enough — to  love 

her  as  a  woman  may  be  impossible." "  I  have  no  more 

wish  to  sacrifice  my  life  than  other  men,  but  having  pledged 
myself  to  her  sister,  at  any  cost  to  myself,"  etc. 

She  reads  it  through  to  the  bitter  end,  begins  at  the  be* 
ginning,  and  reads  it  through  again.     Then  she  sitS)  her  looft 


233 


••  WtnUf  OAY  A        JMTJL" 


hands  on  the  table,  and  starei  blankly  out  at  (he  patt«rfa| 

rain. 

Dora  has  retreated  to  another  window,  gray  squares  of 
light  in  the  rainy  evening  gloom,  still  poring  over  her  weary 
papers.  It  is  only  half-past  four,  but  down  in  the  kitchen  the 
gas  is  flaring ;  Vera  can  see  it  shining  out  on  the  wet  stones 
of  the  yard.  She  wonders  what  they  are  cooking  down  io 
that  hot,  bright  place. 

How  it  rains,  and  how  the  wind  blows  I  "  But  having 
pledged  myself  to  her  sister,  at  any  cost  to  myself  I  shall 

keep  my  word *^     Is  it  as  wild  and  desolate  out  there  on 

the  great  black  ocean,  where  his  ship  is  tossing,  as  it  is  here 
to-night  ?  and  if  there  is  a  wreck,  will  it  matter  much  that  he 
has  sacrificed  his  life  to  her,  atter  all  ? 

Right  before  her  hangs  a  picture  ;  hei  eyes  wander  from 
the  storm  outside,  to  the  canvas.  It  is  a  dreary  thing ;  she 
has  often  thought  so,  and  never  liked  it ;  f  he  looks  at  it  with 
an  actual  sense  of  pain  now.  Why  will  artists  paint  such 
gloomy  pictures  ?  is  there  not  misery,  and  suffering,  and 
dreariness  enough  in  the  world,  without  their  added  mite  ? 
It  is  a  twilight  fjcene,  in  cold  grays  and  pale  yellows.  There 
is  the  sunset  line  ,  the  last  chill  red  glimmer  of  light  lingers, 
but  rising  fast,  and  blotting  it  out,  there  is  a  dank,  white 
wraith  of' mist  Bare  fields  of  yelljw  stubble ;  a  flat  wet 
marsh,  two  or  three  dismal  pollards  and  willows — nothitig 
but  these,  and  the  low  sky  line.  A  broken  rail  fence,  and  a 
woman  leaning  over  it,  with  folded  arms,  her  melancholy 
white  face  turned  to  that  last  pallid  gleam  of  sunset.  It  is 
niourLful ;  it  ^  hopeless ;  there  is  a  heart-ache  only  in  look' 
ing  at  it  It  is  called  "  When  Day  is  Done."  What  story 
^r^f  pain  and  impotent  misery  is  written  in  that  woman's  de« 

spairing  face  ? "  Overwhelmed  by   the   tears   and  re* 

proaches  of  Miss  Light  wood  " "  I  feel,  when  too  lat« 

to  draw  back " 

"Vera  !"  rails  Drr*.  throwinar  herself  back  in  h«r  chain 


••  WHEN  DAY  IS   5t.JVX" 


JJJ 


with  A  tired  sigh,  "  will  yoa  never  have  done  ?    I  hart 
finished  here.     Is  there  anything  worth  keeping  in  that  lot  ?  '* 

"Nothing  worth  keeping." 

As  she  speaks  she  folds  up  the  letter,  and  puts  it  in  hei 
pocket. 

"  Is  that  window  up  ? "  says  Dora,  rising  and  coming 
towards  her.  "  You  are  as  hoarse  as  you  can  be,  and — ^bletf 
the  child  ! — she  is  as  white  as  a  sheet" 

"  I  am  cold,  I  think,"  Vera  answers.  She  shivers  as  she 
speaks,  and  rises  in  turn.  '*  Is  there  anything  else.  Dot  I 
— I  feel  half  sick,  somehow."  She  puts  her  hand  to  her 
head,  in  a  lost,  forlorn  sort  of  way.  "  I  will  go  back  to  my 
room,  and  lie  down." 

*'  Yes,  go ;  you  are  as  pale  as  a  spirit,  or  else  it  is  that 
black  dress  and  this  melancholy  rainy  night.  Do  not  come 
down  to  dinner ;  Harriet  shall  serve  you  in  your  room.  Lie 
down  and  get  to  sleep  early." 

"  Yes,  Dot— -good-night" 

*'  Oh  !  I  will  run  up  and  see  you  presently.  There  ii  ch« 
dressing-bell,  and  here  is  Miss  Lansing." 

Vera  goes  slowly  upstairs.  A  fire  is  burning  in  the  grate, 
and  casting  red,  cheery  lights  over  the  pretty  room.  She 
walks  over  to  it,  takes  out  the  letter,  and  lays  it  on  the  coals. 
It  crisps,  curls,  b!3ckens,  leaps  into  a  jet  of  flame,  flies  up 
the  chimney,  and  is  gone.  Then  she  crosses  to  her  desk, 
unlocks  it,  and  takes  out  another,  an  unopened  one  this 
time.  "  Vera  "  on  the  back  in  the  same  large  free  writing- 
no  other  name.  She  looks  at  it  a  moment,  then  deliberately 
tears  it  in  two,  goes  back  to  the  Are,  and  throws  in  the 
pieces.  In  a  moment  it  is  gone.  But  long  after  the  last 
black  fragment  has  vanished,  long  after  "  day  is  done,"  long 
after  Harriet  lays  a  temptingly-laden  server  on  the  table,  she 
stands  there,  her  hands  clasped  before  her,  looking  into  th« 
ruddy  coals,  as  if  reading  in  them  the  story  of  a  man's  sacri 
ficed  and  darkened  \ifft. 


PART    SECOND 


*  A*  through  the  lanii  at  eve  w«  w* 
And  plucked  the  npened  Mir% 
We  fell  out,  my  wife  and  I  : 
Oh  we  fell  otit,  I  knuw  not  why. 
And  lusaed  again  with  tear».^ 


CHAPTKR  1. 


VRRA. 


1 1  IE  time  is  summer,  the  place  is  London,  the  Bccii9 
a  room  in  Lan^ham's.  A  yellow-gray  aky,  with 
now  and  then  a  rift  of  golden  sunlight,  glimmers 
above  the  million  roofs  ;  it  is  a  London  fine  day.  The  win- 
dows of  the  room  stand  wide,  the  curtains  are  drawn  back, 
all  the  air  and  light  there  are  have  free  play.  Und*ir  one  of 
the  windows,  among  the  cushions  of  a  broad  lounge,  lies  a 
man,  his  hands  clasped  under  his  head,  the  smoke  from  his 
cigar  curling  upward,  his  eyes  fixed  in  dreamy  smoker's 
content  on  the  world  outside.  The  door  of  the  room — a  pri- 
vate parlyr — stands  open,  as  well  as  the  windows,  and  a 
Udy,  trailing  some  yards  of  silken  splendor  after  her  along 
iht  passage,  catches  a  glimpse  of  the  recumbent  figure  and 
'.miies  to  herself  "  How  cool  and  comfortable  he  looks," 
al.e  thinks ;  "  I  believe  1  must  learn  to  smoke  cigarettes," 
and  so  passes  on,  sending  a  waft  ot  wood  violets  to  gteet  the 
nose  of  the  smoker. 

The  parlor  adjoining  is  the  lady's,  a  very  elegant  apart' 
ment,  with  a  litter  of  books  and  flowers,  and  fancy  work, 
that  gives  it  a  harmonized  and  home-like  look.  The  win* 
dows  here  are  open  too,  and  she  goes  over  to  one  erf"  them 
an^  stands  looking  out.      She  is  in  carriage  costume — pale, 


VEttA. 


M5 


nd 
Ithe 


rk. 
in' 


^low^ng  gilk,  lome  lace  draper}-,  not  to  be  itigmaiired  as  a 
iiiawl,  and  a  bonnet,  a  Paris  marvel,  to  the  uninitiated  eye 
just  a  knot  of  creamy  point  lace  and  one  pole  guelder  rose ; 
but  as  to  price — fabulous.  Her  whole  array,  from  the  dia* 
monds  twinkling  in  her  ears  to  the  dainty,  pointed,  high- 
heeled  shoes,  proclaims  lavish  <vealth  and  excellent  tastt. 
Alt,  in  the  shape  of  a  Parisian  milliner  and  mantua-maker, 
has  done  much  for  her  j  nature  has  done  more.  She  seti 
ofifher  dress  more  than  her  dress  sets  off  her;  you  forget  th<j 
toilet  in  looking  at  the  wearer,  and  that  is  high  art.  She  if 
tall,  she  is  dark,  she  is  handsome — in  these  three  point! 
rhere  can  be  no  two  opinions.  The  d'jgi\.e  of  beauty  is  an 
:pen  question — something  more  than  handsome  the  majority 
call  her.  She  has  a  pair  of  eyes  such  as  Murillo  or  Titian 
in  their  day  loved  to  paint,  eyes  whose  lustrous  brown  beauty 
might  have  redeemed  from  plainness  even  a  plain  face.  Shf 
has  a  rich  abundance  of  silken  dark  hair,  worn  in  a  thick 
twist  high  on  a  shapely  head.  Modistes  and  artists  pro 
nounce  alike  the  figure  simply  perfect ;  the  hand  in  its 
pearl-tinted  glove,  is  long  and  slim  ;  the  mouth  is  sweet  and 
resolute ;  the  complexion  clear  and  colorless  as  the  leaf  of 
a  calla.  It  is  the  ugly  ducklinjg  transformed  into  a  4wan. 
It  is  Vera. 

Six  times  has  the  earth  lain  white  and  dead  under  tne  win 
ter  snow,  six  time&  has  it  stirred  green  and  living  under  the 
summer  grass,  since  you  saw  her  last.  You  left  her  at  night- 
fall of  a  drear  November  day,  you  find  her  at  four  in  the 
afternoon  of  a  day  in  June.  You  left  her  tall,  straight, 
black,  in  her  mourning  frock ;  you  find  her  tall,  graceful, 
elegant,  robed  for  a  drive  in  the  park,  in  perfumed  silks 
and  laces.  You  left  her  a  sallow,  unformed  girl  ol 
sixteen;  you  find  her  a  fair  am  gracious  lady  of  two 
and  twenty.  You  left  her  pale  anva  sorrow-stricken  at  Charl- 
ton ;  you  find  her  in  blooming  h  jalth  and  buoyant  spirits  at 
I  Ingham's.     You  lefl  her  ru&acated  near  the  obscure  tows 


226 


VEMA, 


of  St  Ann' I ;  you  find  hei  a  brilliaii*  oelle,  runni/  /.  the  round 
of  a  brilliant  London  season,  thorcMghl}-  enjoy Jij  her  life, 
her  youth,  her  position,  her  pleasures,  her  beauty.  They 
are  two,  yet  the  same — the  moping,  forlorn  little  ''  Mali- 
ana,"  cjeserted  in  her  Yankee  moaten  grange,  and  this  gay 
young  lady  in  her  Parisian  attire — the  same  Vera — with  a 
difference. 

She  takes  a  low  easy-chair,  and  sits  down  to  wai'i.  Th« 
window  at  which  she  sits  adjoins  that  at  which  he«  maa 
culine  neighbor  smokes.  Now  and  then  an  odoroui  waH 
greets  her.  Presently  he  finishes,  and  begins  to  whittle; 
Then  he  rises  and  starts  on  a  constitutional  up  and  down 
the  room,  keeping  step  to  his  own  music.  Next  he  goes 
to  a  piano,  standing  open  in  a  comer,  and  strikes  half  a 
dozen  deep  chords  with  a  hand  that  understands  the  in- 
strument. This  seems  to  inspire  him,  for  it  is  followed  by  • 
ringing  Uhlan  song,  in  a  fine  mellow  tenor  voice : 

••Der  HoMur, 
Tnu-a  1  ' 

Wm  Ut  Hie  Gefahr  ? 
Scin  Wein— flink  I  flink  I 
mht}  blink  I  Sbbel  trink— 

A  rink  Blut  I  Trara  I 

'^  Der  Plusar, 

**  Trara  I 

Was  ist  die  Gefahr  ? 
Sein  herzliebster  Klang, 
Sein  Uebgesaiig, 

Schlafgesang.     Trara  ['* 

Vera  iistens,  and  smiles  at  first — evidently  the  gentleman 
fji  in  fine  spirits,  and  not  at  all  lonely  in  his  solitude.  But 
gfter  the  first  voice  the  smile  fades,  her  dark  brows  contract, 
Rhe  has  heard  that  song  before,  once  before.  It  seems  ta 
her  even  she  has  heard  that  voice.  F<Dr  a  moment  she  if 
poizled  to  recall  where — then,  with  a  siart,  and  a  thrill,  al 


VEMA, 


Vf 


But 
ract> 
IS  ta 
le  if 


moft  o(  tei  for,  It  lashes  upon  her  V  long  Ump-llt  drawing- 
room,  a  girl  in  a  short  dress,  and  cropped  curls,  standing  bj 
a  piano,  a  man  sitting  at  it,  striking  a  spirited  accompaniment, 
and  trolling  out  this  ballad  of  Nicholaus  Lenaun,  smUing  up 
at  her  as  he  sings.  It  is  so  long  ago— so  long  ago,  and  yt^ 
—only  six  yeaii. 

•«Der  KoMT, 
T«r»  I " 

He  hat  left  the  piano,  and  resumed  his  quick  march  op 
and  dovm.  Vera's  heart  has  started  boating  with  a  rapidity 
thAt  it  ha^  not  pulsed  with  for  the  two  years  of  her  fashiona- 
ble life.  How  plainly  the  voice  comes  to  her — how  like 
Uii? 

**  Scin  Wein— flink  I  flink  I 
Si&bel  bUnk,  Silbd  trink— 
TrinkBlatt    Trvra!;* 

She  irises  quickly,  impulsively,  and  rings  the  bell.  A 
^xvsnch  maid  appears  after  a  moment* 

"  FilicUn,"  her  mistress  says  rapidly,  *'  go  and  get  »^  a 
list  of  all  fbe  arrivals  at  this  hotel  for  the  past  week.  And 
be  quick." 

The  girl  goes.  The  voice  of  her  musical  neighbor  h  u' 
ceased  sin{<;ing,  and  resumed  whistling.  Vera's  brows  akj 
contracted,  one  dainty  foot  taps  an  impatient  tattoo. 

**  If  the  carriage  comes  before  F61ician  "  she  thinks ; 
*'■  and  Dot  so  hates  to  be  kept  waiting." 

But  the  carriage  does  not  come  first — Filician  enters  tii- 
Bunphant  with  the  list.  It  is  a  long  one,  but  the  young  lady's 
eye  glances  over  it  in  one  flash .  It  dr  *ps  from  her  liand — 
theie  it  is — the  name  she  has  looked  for.  The  voice  that 
lings  is  the  voice  that  sang  for  her  six  years  ago  the  same 
dashing  trooper  song. 

All  is  quiet  in  the  next  room  now,  he  has  ^r^ne  out  and 
down-stairs.     Her  «ense  of  hearing  has  quickened  nainfallj 


2aS 


rSMA. 


within  the  If^st  few  m 'nutes ;  the  ringing  lefriin  HbralM  il 
her  eari  mi  though  it  were  still  iotiiding  : 

**  Der  HvMr, 

Trura  I 
WuistdieGefahr?" 

**  At  last  1  at  last  1 "  she  says  to  herself,  **  and  like  this  I  * 

She  has  known  it  must  come,  some  time  or  other,  thii 
meeimg — with  both  living  it  was  inevitable.  She  has  wotv 
dered  often  how,  and  when,  and  where  it  might  be,  and  has 
tried  to  brace  herself  to  all  chances.  After  all,  nothing 
could  be  more  common-place,  less  dramatic  ;  they  are  both 
here  in  the  same  hotel,  and  his  Uhlan  song  has  betrayed 
him.  He  is  on  his  way  to  Atnerica  perhaps,  but  that  is  a 
very  wide  guess  perhaps  ;  the  world  is  his  home,  he  is  of  the 
nomad  tribes,  a  wanderer,  an  Ishmaelite,  a  Bohemian,  a 
soldier  of  fortune.  He  was  wounded  when  last  she  heard 
of  him— from  him  she  never  hears — but  that  was  more  than 
six  months  ago.  He  sounds  in  very  excellent  health  and 
spirits  now  at  least ;  a  bullet  more  or  less  through  the  lungs 
does  not  seem  to  impair  his  musical  powers.  And  he  is 
here  !  Well,  the  world  is  full  of  paper  walls,  and  they  hold 
men  and  women  asunder  as  surely  as  though  they  were  of 
iron  and  adamant.  He  does  not  know  they  are  here,  of 
course ;  jjie  hopes,  drawing  her  breath  quickly,  and  her 
cheek  flushing — that  he  may  not.  She  will  not  lift  one 
finger  to  let  him  know.  If  only  Dot  does  not  find  out  I 
But  that  is  hopeless ;  Dot  finds  out  everything.  Luckily 
they  go  soon,  and Enter  F61ician. 

*'  Madame' s  compliments,  mademoiselle,  and  she  is  waiting 
in  the  carriage." 

Vera  rises,  and  sweeps  her  silk  flounces  after  her  over  the 
carpeted  corridor.  A  gentleman  is  running  upstiirs  at  the 
moment — she  draws  quickly  back  to  let  him  pass.  He  givefl 
her  a  fleeting  glance  of  grand,  careless,  surprised  admiration, 


rjutA. 


M9 


her 
one 
mtl 


^ting 

th« 

the 

iveg 

lion, 


■BOOTcn,  And  paases  jn.  It  is  too  rapid^  too  indlect,  foe 
rer^>guition ;  he  has  seen  only  a  fair  wonun,  richly  robed, 
making  way  for  him,  and  forgets  1*  er  as  soon  as  seen.  She 
goes  iowp  and  enters  the  carriage,  where  ner  sister  already 
sits,  as  F^Iician  has  intimated.  It  is  Dot,  but  a  faded  Dot, 
a  pale,  thin,  aged  Dot,  with  transparent  skin,  and  sharp 
cheek-bones,  and  bistre  circles  under  the  blue  eyes.  There 
is  rouge  on  the  poor  wan  che^iks,  blanc  de  perle  on  the  lost 
complexion,  and  a  white  gauze  vail  over  all.  That  her  dress 
is  elaborate,  is  costly,  is  from  Worth,  goes  without  saying  ; 
the  pale  gold  hair  too  is  profuse — ^more  profuse  than  ever ; 
Dora  is  rich  and  regards  not  expense.  But  in  spite  of  false 
tresses,  false  bloom,  white  gauze,  and  India  muslin,  Dora 
will  not  bear  inspection  too  nearly,  or  in  too  strong  a  light. 
Her  pink  silk  parasol  casts  a  fictitiously  roseate  hue  over  her, 
but  it  cannot  obliterate  the  fine  lines  of  care  and  premature 
age  between  her  bismuthed  eyes. 

"  How  long  you  have  kept  me  waiting,"  she  says,  quetu 
lously,  "  and  good  gracious  !  how  pale  you  are.     Is  it  that 
yellow  rose  you  wear,  or  is  it  that  you  are  ill  ?" 

"  I  am  not  ill,"  Vera  answers  slowly ;  **  it  will  soon  pass 
I  am  never  very  red,  you  know.    Where  is  Mr.  Fanshawe  ?  '* 

"  He  keeps  me  waiting,  too — how  tiresome  everybody 
is  ! "  still  querulously.     "  Oh  !  here  he  is  at  last." 

A  gentleman  joins  them  on  horseback,  »n  excessively 
hand'oome,  fair  man,  with  profuse  blond  beard,  a  complexion 
as  delicate  as  that  of  a  miss  in  her  teens,  and  a  pair  of  light 
blue,  sleepy  eyes. 

**  Not  detained  you,  I  hope  ?  "  he  says,  and  taket  his  place 
at  the  side  of  the  carriage  where  Dora  sits.  But  he  looks 
curiously  at  her  sister,  a  Aalf-smile  on  his  bearded  lips.  She 
does  not  notice  him ;  she  is  gazing  straight  before  her,  with 
a  certain  blankness  of  expression  that  shows  she  sees  noth- 
ing. He  pulls  a  newsp/iper  oit  of  his  pocket  and  leani 
down  to  Dora. 


330 


/ERA, 


"Read  that,"  he  %i>.y%j  m  i  guarded  undt/tone,  and  puinti 
oiiit  a  paragrapli ;  "  do  not  let  Vera  see  you." 

She  takes  it  and  glances  in  some  surprise.  It  is  headed 
*'  The  Cuban  League,"  and  is  something  about  a  meeting  of 
the  **  Executive  Committee  of  the  Cuban  League,  held  yes- 
terday at  the  rooms  of  Dr.  Emil  Englehart,  Langham's  Hotel, 
at  which  Colonel  R.  C.  Ffrench,  formerly  on  the  staff  of 
General  Morton,  in  the  Sixth  Army  Corps,  of  the  late  Ameri- 
can civil  war,  was  one  of  the  notabilities  present.  The  colo- 
nel, it  may  be  mentioned,  has  recently  distinguished  himself 
greatly  in  '  Cuba  Libre,'  notably  at  the  capture  and  destruc- 
tion of  the  city  of  Las  Tunas.  On  that  occasion  he  was 
severely  wounded,  and  left  for  dead  on  the  field.  His  health 
is  now  almost  entirely  restored,  and  he  shortly  leturns  to  re- 
join the  cause  of  the  Ever  Faithful  Isle.  In  science,  as  in  war, 
Col.  Ffrench  is  equally  distinguished  ;  he  was  one  of  the  little 
band  of  explorers  who,  three  years  ago,  returned  from  the  Hon- 
duras expedition.  His  book,  *  Among  the  Silver  Mines,'  was 
spoken  very  highly  of  among  certain  readers  at  the  time." 

The  article  is  lengthy,  but  Dora  reads  no  more.  She 
makes  no  sign,  except  to  frown  darkly  at  the  printed  page, 
and  hands  the  paper  back  to  her  escort.  A  glance  of  intel- 
ligence passes  between  them,  then  they  look  at  Vera,  but 
Vera  still  sits  abstracted  and  silent,  and  notices  nothing  of 
this  little  by-play. 

*'*'  How  long  has  he  been  here  ?  "  Dora  asks  at  length,  in 
a  low  voice. 

**  Three  days,  and  by  the  oddest  chance  his  rooms  adjoin 
ours.  He  and  this  Dr.  Englehart  are  there  together.  The^r 
have  a  dinner  party  of  the  Cuban  sympathizers,  it  seems,  to 
night.     It  is  impossible  but  that  he  and  Vera  shall  meet." 

She  frowns  more  deeply,  the  fine  lines  between  the  eyei 
grave  themselves  into  little  furrows. 

"  It  is  only  a  question  of  time,  you  know,"  the  gentlemaa 
says,  lazily.     <<  What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it  ?  '* 


VMXA. 


«s« 


»» 


eyei 


imai 


.■) 


**  I  must  see  him/'  she  says,  impatiently.  '^  What  a  bore  I 
And  just  as  I  was  beginning  to  enj  jy  myself.  Why  couldn't 
he  have  died  respectably  in  Cuba  when  he  was  about  it  ? 
People  have  no  business  to  go  about  with  bullets  in  them." 

"  The  bullets  were  extracted,  my  dear." 

"  He  ought  to  die — it  would  be  ever  so  much  moie  con« 
venient  every  way.  And  just  as  Sir  Beltran  Talbot  is  grow- 
ing so  particular  in  his  attentions,  too  !  The  other  men  of 
the  expedition  caught  fevers  and  died;  why  couldn't  he? 
Other  men  were  shot  at  Las  Tunas  and  stayed  shot,  but  this 
Ffrench " 

The  gentleman  laughs,  still  lazily,  and  shows  very  white 
teeth. 

"Widow's  weeds  would  be  eminently  becoming  to  our 
pretty  Vera,  I  think  myself.  I  know  two  or  three  men  who 
would  prefer  her  in  them — if  they  knew  the  truth.  Would 
she  don  weeds  and  crape,  do  you  think,  if  this  Ffrench  realty 
went  over  to  the  silent  majority  ?  " 

**  Of  course  not.  How  absurd,  Dane  I  After  all  these 
years,  and  nobody  knowing  a  thing  of  it.  What  a  mistake 
it  was — what  a  stupid  mistake,  and  no  one  to  blame  but  my- 
self! I  must  own  that.  Zr<f  didn't  want  to,  and  she — but 
she  was  such  a  little  fool  in  those  days  ! " 

"  Was  she  really  ?  "  he  says,  and  glances  over  at  her  with 
interest.  "  I  cannot  fancy  our  stately  Vera  in  that  r6le,  or 
any  role  except  the  dignified,  and  uplifted,  and  gracefully 
self-possessed.  She  was  not  always  the  law  unto  herself, 
then,  that  she  is  at  present  ?  For  even  you,  my  angel,  must 
acknowledge  that  hers  is  the  ruling  spirit  of  our  minage. 
Was  she  in  love  with  Ffrench  in  the  days  when  she  was  a 
Uttle  fool  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  N  ■> — yes — she  was  a  child,  and  a  simple>^ 
ton,  I  tell  you,  and  did  not  know  the  meaning  of  the  word 
No,  she  never  was  in  love  with  him." 

"  And  vet  he  is  a  proper  fellow,  too,  to  wm  a  lady's  fitvoi 


«Sa 


VBMA. 


!!!! 


—better-looking  nov,  1  think,  than  even  ir.  those  daj%.  Ha 
if  tanned  to  a  fine  shade  of  burnt  Sienna — I  met  him  ye8ter« 
day — and  looks  every  inch  a  soldier.  There  is  no  saying 
what  any  of  you  angelic  beings  will  do  in  any  given  case,  but 
it  seems  to  an  outside  barbarian  like  myself  an  easy  enough 
thing  fo!  any  woman  to  fall  in  love  with  this  dark  and  da^th- 
icg  Free  Lance." 

*'  Vera  is  not  of  the  kind  to  fall  in  love  at  a  moment's 
notice,  Mr.  Fanshawe  1 " 

'*  But  sooner  or  later  she  is  bound  to  do  it,  you  know,  and 
very  probably  make  an  idiot  of  herself  for  her  pains.  You 
were  not  of  the  kind  to  fall  in  love  at  a  moment's  notice,  my 
Dora,  and  yet " 

**  I  have  done  it,  and  made  an  idiot  of  myself  for  my 
pains  ! "  Dora  interrupts  with  sudden  bitterness ;  ''^  is  that 
what  you  are  trying  to  say,  Mr.  Fanshawe  ?  " 

"  No,  my  love,  it  is  not,"  murmurs  Mr.  Fanshawe,  caress- 
ing his  blond  beard  ;  "  far  be  it  from  me  to  stigmatize  as 
idiocy  what  has  been  the  crowning  bliss  of  my  life.  Sir 
Beltran  Talbot,  Guardsman,  is  an  ass,  or  theieabouts — a 
good  natured  ass,  I  allow,  but  still  too  profoundly  asinine  to 
aspire  in  any  case  to  the  hand  of  our  royal  sister.  Col. 
Ffrench  is  a  fine  fellow,  as  I  remarked  before,  only  unfortu* 
nately  he  is  in  the  same  predicament  as  the  immortal  *  Peter 
pumpkio  eater,  who  had  a  wife  and  couldn't  keep  her.' 
Joining  exploring  expeditions  and  turning  soldier  of  fortune, 
does  not  as  a  rule  put  money  in  your  purse.  And  our  lovely 
one  is  a  costly  luxury.  1  should  think,  now,  those  ravishing 
Paris  toilets  she  adorns  so  well,  would  cost  in  rounH  figures 
some  ten  thousand  dollars  a  year." 

All  this  i^e-dUte  has  been  carried  on  on  th**  off  side  of 
the  carriage,  unnoticed  and  unheal  d  by  Vera.  Sne  has  her 
own  life  apart,  her  own  day-dreams ;  her  thoughts  are  a 
sealed  book  to  Dora.  Now  hey  &re  entering  the  park,  and 
the  conversation  of  necessity  ceases.     Tjut  all  throngb  tht 


VERA, 


n\ 


yi.    Hi 

n  yester« 
D  saying 
^asC)  but 
'  enough 
id  dash* 

loment'i 

iow,  and 
s.  Yim 
tice,  my 

for  my 
'is  that 

I  caress, 
atize  as 
fe.     Sir 
outs — a 
nine  to 
Col. 
nfortu* 
Peter, 
her.' 
)rtune, 
lovejy 
dshing 
guref 


alow  drive  up  and  down  the  I^/s  Mile,  .nrough  i4ie  bows, 
and  smiles,  and  greetings — and  Dora  has  made  many  friendt 
— she  is  still  absorbed  in  the  thought  that  slie  must  and  will 
■ee  Colonel  Ffrench  before  Vera. 

They  dine  out  that  day,  then  follows  Covent  Garden,  after- 
wards a  ball.  Royally  is  present  at  the  latter  ;  it  is  one  of 
the  most  brilliant  and  exclusive  of  the  season,  but  still, 
through  it  all,  Dora  keeps  that  thought  uppermost — she  must 
see  Richard  Ffrench  first.  She  watches  her  sister  closely ; 
she  is  not  so  radiant  as  usual  to-night ;  her  face  looks  pale, 
her  eyes  listless,  her  manner  is  distrait ;  she  avoids  Sii 
Beltran  Talbot  with  a  very  pronounced  avoidance.  Dora 
bites  her  lip  ;  it  is  such  a  pity — such  a  shame  I  His  ''  place" 
in  Dorsetshire  is  a  place  to  dream  of;  his  rent-roll  stands 
first  in  the  baronetage  ;  his  infatuation  for  Miss  Martinez  ii 
patent  to  gods  and  men.  Oh,  it  is  too  bad  I  And  all  be- 
cause of  this  Richard  Ffrench — this  wild,  wandering,  soldierly^ 

good-for-nothing She  taps  her  delicate  fan  so  impa* 

tiently  that  the  frail  sticks  snap.  She  must  see  him  ;  there 
must  be  some  way  found  out  of  this  muddle.  It  v/as  all  a 
mistake — she  sees  that  now,  when  it  is  too  la  te.  Vera  might 
be  my  Lady  Talbot  to-morrow  if  she  would.  And  she  does 
not  care  for  Ffrench — never  cared  for  him  in  that  way. 
It  is  such  a  pity  I  That  nonsensical  marriage  must  be  set 
aside. 

**  You  look  tired.  Vera,"  she  says,  some  time  in  the  small 
hours.     "  Would  you  not  like  to  go  ?  " 

Vera  is  tired ;  she  says  it  wearily,  listlessly ;  she  would 
▼sry  much  like  to  go,  if  Dot  is  willing. 

Dot  is  always  willing  and  brisk,  when  she  has  mischief  od 
hand.  So  the  carriage  is  ordered,  and  ur  ^er  the  chill  mori^ 
ing  stars,  they  drive  home. 

*»Now  go  at  once  to  your  room,  ano  go  to  bed,*  saya 
Dora,  kissing  her,  "  and  get  rid  of  that  fagged  face  beforf 
the  garden  party  at  Kew,  to-morrow." 


'iM 


•34 


A  LOOK  BEHIND. 


Vrra  smflss^  and  goes.  Dot  a  does  not  folic  iv  ner  exam 
pie.  She  hears  voices  and  laughter  in  the  next  parlor,  and 
recalls  the  dinner-party,  of  which  she  has  been  told.  Evi- 
dintly  it  has  not  yet  entirely  broicen  up.  Prompt  decision 
is  one  of  Dora's  virtues — she  does  not  hesitate  now.  The 
hour  is  abnormal,  bui  tnere  is  never  any  time  like  the  pres- 
ent. She  takes  a  card  from  her  card-case,  looks  at  the  name, 
and  smiles.  The  name  printed  thereon  is  **  Mrs.  Dane  Fan- 
thawe." 

'  That  will  tell  him  nothing,"  she  layi ;  '<  he  does  not 
know,  of  course." 

She  takes  a  blank  one,  and  writes  in  pencil : 

**  You  iMve  not  retired,  I  know.     Will  you  overlook  th«  hour,  wA 
grant  me  tlx  favor  of  an  interview  in  my  sitting-room  ?  ** 
\  ''Theodora  Lightwo(m>. 

'*  I  sign  the  old  name,  that  you  may  recognize  it  the  more  readily.'* 

She  rings  for  F^ician,  and  sends  that  sleepy  damsel  to 
Colonel  Ffrench.  There  is  a  cessation  of  the  gay  voices, 
and  a  pause.  But  she  is  not  kept  waiting.  The  sitting-room 
doo  opens,  "  Colonel  Ffrench,  madame,"  announces  F6li- 
cian,  and  vanishes.  And  Dora  gracefully  comes  forward, 
and  holds  out  her  mite  of  a  hand,  all  flashing  with  jewels, 
snd  looks  up  with  the  old  smile  into  Dick  Ffrench's  face. 


CHAPTER   II. 


A   LOOK    BEHIND. 


IKRA,  obediently  enough,  goes  to  her  room  and  tt 
bed,  but  long  after  the  '<  sheen  of  satin,  and  glim- 
mer of  pearls,"  are  laid  aside,  long  after  the  momp 

ing  stars  wane  and  set,  she  lies  still  and  rleepless  among  thi 

pillows,  and  th^s. 


A  LOOK  BEHWD. 


n% 


dix  years  is  a  very  fair  gap  in  any  life ;  it  Is  the  record  of 
six  years  she  goes  over  now.  They  have  passed  quickly ^ 
they  look  a  very  brief  span,  as  she  recalls  them,  but  they 
have  brought  many  and  great  changes,  in  her  inward,  even 
more,  perhaps,  than  her  outward  life.  It  is  a  sufficiently 
pleasant  retrospect,  undimmed  by  any  very  dark  shadow,  ex- 
cept in  those  opening  days.  But  that  first  autumn  is  a  timer 
she  will  ever  remember — it  stands  apart  from  all  the  rest ; 
graven  hi  pain  and  cruel  shame  on  her  mind. 

It  changed  her,  as  untroubled  years  could  never  have 
done.  Over  all  there  is  an  indistinctness  ;  dark  days  blend- 
ing into  dark  nights,  wintry  winds  sobbing  about  the  gables 
and  down  the  chimneys,  sleet  and  rain,  and  heavy  falls  of 
snow.  To  all  people  it  was  an  unusually  cold  and  stormy 
winter — to  Vera  the  sun  never  shone  once.  Always  the 
memory  of  the  words  spoken  in  the  garden,  of  the  words 
written  in  the  letter  1  Night  after  night,  lying  in  the  bleak 
darkness,  it  all  flashes  back  upon  her,  and  the  agony  of  mor- 
tihcatioD  it  brings  is  known  only  to  Heaven  and  herself. 
He  thinks  of  her  as  a  girl  shamefully  in  love  with  him,  run- 
ning  after  him  everywhere,  following  him  to  Shaddeck  Light 
with  the  determined  purpose  of  remaining,  and  forcing  him 
to  marry  her.  Oh  !  what  a  shameful,  shameful  thing  !  she 
sits  up  in  the  darkness  in  an  agony  that  nakes  her  shake  from 
head  to  foot.  He  believes  aU  that.  She  has  thought  over 
it  so  long,  and  so  incessantly,  th.  .t  not  a  shadow  of  doubt  re- 
mains. She  feels  that  she  would  rather  die  than  ever  mee* 
him,  that  she  would  fall  at  his  feet  only  to  see  the  cold  coc" 
tempt  of  his  eyes.  Oh  1  the  shame  of  it '  the  shame  of  it  I 
and  no  human  being  but  herself  can  ever  know  how  it  really 
was. 

She  lives  two  lives  in  these  early  days  of  hei  trouble — the 
nigiit  life  of  childish,,  unreasoning  misery  and  sleepless  pain  ; 
tl«e  day  life  when  she  says  lessons,  and  spends  hours  at  th< 
piano,  and  in  reading  French  and  German  with  Miss  Lan* 


2|6 


A  LOOK  BEHIND. 


!fi 


II 


i  I 


fing.  She  grows  as  thin  as  a  shadow,  aL  i  Dora  begiof  M 
kiiit  her  brows  apprehensively,  as  she  watches  her.  Doia 
knows  nothing  of  all  this. 

What  is  the  matter  with  the  child  ?  Is  she  still  fretting 
over  Dick  Ffrench's  departure,  or  is  it  that  she  studies  too 
hard  ?  Cut  she  studies  so  easily — she  masters  every  task 
with,  avidity ;  it  is  a  keen  delight  to  her,  all  this  new  world 
of  books  and  learning.     Miss  Lansing  is  proud  of  her  pupil. 

*'  She  gets  on  famously,"  she  tells  Mrs.  Charlton.  **  Your 
sister  possesses  something  more  than  average  inte'  agence—* 
■he  is  highly  gifted.  She  masters  music  and  languages  with 
\  readiness  and  eaie  I  never  saw  surpassed." 

And  Dora,  ambitious  that  Vera  shall  shine  in  intellect,  if 
not  in  beauty,  does  not  interrupt.  It  is  only  that  she  grows 
10  fast.  Tall  already  for  sixteen,  she  is  shooting  up  like  a 
young  willow,  slender,  supple,  graceful,  but  woefully  hollow- 
eyed  and  wan-cheeked. 

"  She  will  Cftainly  be  plain,"  Dora  says,  with  a  sigh 
'^  she  grows  thinner  and  sallower  every  day,  and  has  no  moi  3 
figure  than  a  broomstick.  Well,  she  is  manied — after  all,  it 
does  not  so  much  signify.  Dick  Ffrench  is  a  bookworm,  a 
tavant,  and  ->great,  blundering  simpleton  1 — no  eyes  for  good 
looks  when  he  sees  them." 

Mrs^  Charlton  has  a  resentful  remembrance  of  sundry  arts, 
and  cunning  toilets,  and  pretty  looks  thrown  away  on  this 
blundering  Dick,  and  of  a  very  decided  snubbing  adminis- 
tered late  one  night  out  there  on  the  steps.  But  Vera  likes 
him,  and  as  the  poor  thing  is  going  to  grow  up  so  painfully 
pUin,  it  is  just  as  well  she  is  safely  out  of  the  matrimonial 
market. 

Mrs.  Charlton  sweeps  her  sables  a  good  deal  about  the 
streets  of  New  York  this  first  winter,  and  by  no  means  in^ 
moUtes  herself  to  appease  the  manes  of  the  late  departed 
In  a  quiet  way  she  manages  to  spend  a  good  deal  of  the 
Chailton  money,  and  sec  considerable  company.    She  has 


1 


I 


■V. 


4  LOOK  BRmmiK 


«S7 


DOIA 

fretting 
dies  too 
;ry  task 
MT  virorld 

pupil. 

"Youf 
jence— ' 
[es  with 

llect,  if 
e  grows 
>  like  a 
hollow- 


r< 


sigh 
omoi9 

all,  it 
rorm,  a 
}rgood 


ryarts, 
)n  thia 
Iminis- 
\  likes 
infully 
noniat 

It  the 

is  vnt 

larted 

>f  tho 

hat 


■o  idea  of  making  a  suttee  of  herself^  or  of  b'Jng  buried  aliva 
more  than  three  months  of  the  twelve  down  at  Charlton. 
She  If  a  trifie  undecided  ^hat  to  do  with  Vera  in  the  spring, 
whether  to  send  hei  to  school  or  leave  her  here  alone  with 
hergcvemcss.  For  herself,  as  has  been  intimated,  she  in 
tends  to  go  abroad.  Miss  Lansing  decides  the  point — she  it 
f.bout  to  be  married,  and  tenders  her  resignation.  The  die 
b  casi — Vera  goes  to  school. 

In  all  this  time  has  nothing  been  heard  of  or  from  Captaia 
Dick? 

One  day,  early  in  Febntary,  Mrs.  Charlton  enters  the 
schoolroom,  a  letter  in  her  hand.  Vera  sits  there  alone 
practicing  ;  she  has  plenty  of  piano-forte  drudgery  now.  It 
is  late  in  the  afternoon,  but  what  waning  light  there  is  falls 
full  on  Vera  s  face.  More  than  ever  Dora  is  struck  by  its 
dark  pallor,  its  thinness,  and  a  certain  subdued  and  repressed 
expression  that  never  used  to  be  there.  She  sits  silently 
looking  at  her  for  a  while,  until  Vera  finishes  her  piece  and 
turns. 

"  What  is  it.  Dot?"  she  asks. 

Dora  holds  up  the  letter,  superscription  outward,  and 
Rmiles. 

"Do  you  know  that  V^nd  ?  "  she  says. 

The  blood  flushes  up  over  Vera's  face,  she  catches  hef 
breath.    Oh  !  does  she  not  ? 

"  It  came  this  morning,"  her  sister  says,  "  but  I  have  only 
liad  time  to  look  at  it  now.  It  is  for  me,  you  see,  but  there 
is  an  inclosure  for  you." 

She  produces  it — "Vera"  on  the  white  paper,  and  no 
other  nan  t.  Vera  looks  at  it  with  longing,  -"ith  wistful 
pathos,  with  keenest  pain.  It  brings  back  so  /ividly  that 
cruel  November  afternoon,  and  all  the  agony,  and  humiliv 
tion,  and  shame.  She  takes  it  without  a  word,  and  puts  it 
In  hei  pocket.  She  does  not  mean  to  read  it,  she  will  nevei 
read  a  letter  of  his  again — there  never  can  be  anythin^r  ti 


II 

I  i 
I! 

II 

tl 
li 

lU, 
Mil 


«|8 


A  LOOX  BEHIND, 


My  between  them  tny  more-— but  Dot  need  not  be  tol  1  liat 

She  knows  what  ht  thinks  of  her — that  is  enough.  What  hi 
says  here,  h^  does  not  mean.  No  doubt  he  pities  her ;  «r<l 
mostly  have  a  sort  of  compassion  for  what  we  sorn.  Nj 
doubt  he  means  to  be  kind  to  her,  and  do  his  duty  by  hei, 
and  go  on  sending  her  kindly  letters.  But  she  does  not  want 
duty  or  kindness  of  that  sort  Nothing  can  alter  the  pait  ^ 
what  is  done,  is  done,  but  there  is  no  need  of  her  lowering 
herself  still  more.  She  will  not  read  his  letrers,  she  will  m  t 
answer  them,  she  will  never  think  of  him  if  she  cait  help  it, 
she  will  never  see  him  when  he  comes  back,  she  will  nevei 
be  his  wife.  But  all  that  is  still  a  long  way  ahead,  and  just 
at  present  Dot  need  not  be  told.  She  will  be  ioyal  to  him, 
as  she  feels  he  will  be  loyal  to  her,  and  no  one  shall  ever  say, 
VI  her  hearing,  one  word  that  is  not  in  his  praise.  With  the 
letter  in  her  pocket,  she  sits  idly  stiumming  on  the  keys. 
Dora  watches  her,  quiet  amusement  in  her  eyes. 

"  Are  you  not  going  to  read  that  letter  ?  "  she  asks ;  "  oi 
is  it  too  sacred  to  be  opened  in  my  presence  ?  If  it  is  any- 
thing like  mine,  my  dear,  you  need  have  no  hesitation. 
Anything  more  prosaic,  or  curt,  or  quietly  sarcastic  than  the 
congratulations  of  my  step-son-in-law  on  my  maniage,  you 
cannot  conceive.  Of  course  he  has  not  yet  heard  of  pool 
Mr.  Charlton's  death." 

Vera"  says  nothing ;  she  plays  softly,  her  eyes  on  the 
keys. 

"You  never  told  me,  by  the  way,"  goes  on  Dora,  "  what 
was  in  that  farewell  note  of  his  from  New  York.  You  had 
not  read  it,  I  remember,  weeks  and  weeks  after." 

Still  Vera  says  noth'ng,  still  she  plays  on,  and  avoids  hei 
sister's  eye. 

"How  secretive  and  reserved  ve  are  growing  all  of  a 
sudden ! "  exclaims  Mrs.  Charlton,  pettishly,  yet  half  laugii- 
ing.  "  Don't  be  a  goose.  Vera.  Read  your  letter,  and  sea 
what  our  dear  Dick  says.     I  have  a  right  to  know  what  nry 


--"^^ 


jt  LOOK  BEHIHD. 


399 


s;  "of 


>» 


a  hex 


itep-Bon  ii  abotit,  remember.  Apropos,  though — what  ihall 
we  do  with  his  letters  when  jtou  go  to  school  ?  ** 

Vera  lifts  two  inquiring  eyes. 

**  You  see  you  are  going,  of  course,  as  an  unmairied  girl- 
as  Vera  Martinez,  (by  the  by,  Captain  Ffrench  does  not 
do  you  the  honor  of  putting  his  name  on  your  letter,)  and  it 
will  never  do  for  you  to  receive  epistles  beginning  *my  dear 
wife,'  as  1  suppose  they  do  begin.  What  had  I  better  say  to 
him  about  it  ?  " 

*'  You  had  better  say  to  him,"  answers  Vera»  speaking  at 
last,  and  speaking  with  quick  decision,  "not  to  write  at  aU.** 

"  I  mean  it,  Dot ;  it  will  be  much  the  best  As  you  say, 
the  truth  would  come  out  if  I  received  letters  from  him,  and 
— and  I  could  not  bear  it  I  shall  have  enough  to  do  besides 
without  answering  letters.  I  have  nothing  worth  writing  oC 
either,  and — and  m  every  way  I  shall  prefer  it." 

Her  sister  sits  amazed,  and  looks  at  her. 

"  Vera,  do  you  really  mean  this  ?  " 

"I  really  and  imly  mean  it" 

"You  do  not  want  to  receive  letters  from  Captab 
Ffrench  ?  " 

"  I  do  not." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  answer  this  one  ?  " 

*•  No.* 

^Because,"  Dora  says,  "you  could  explain  all  that  yoa 
know.  If  I  write  and  tell  him,  he  will  think  it  is  my  doing. 
Not  that  I  care,  for  that  matter,  what  he  thinks." 

**  I  shall  not  answer  it" 

Again  silence.     Dora  sits  fairly  puzzled. 

"Well,"  she  says,  getting  up  at  last,  "  I  must  say  you  are 
▼cry  much  altered.  Something  more  than  I  knew  of  has 
wrought  the  change ;  but  keep  your  own  secrets,  if  you  like. 
I  think,  on  the  whole,  it  will  be  just  as  well  to  drop  the  cor- 
re»pondence  until  you  leave  school.     By  that  time  both  yoil 


II 


J  LOOr  BEMWIk 


I 


■Il  , 
I'lii 


jl'l' 
III 


iHjl 
Hi 

I;. 1,1 


"■  I 


and  he  will  be  old  enough,  let  us  hope^  to  know  your  own 
minds.  The  more  you  learn,  and  the  cle^'eier  you  are,  the 
better  your  chance  will  be  of  pleasing  this  scientific  husband 
of  yours  I  am  to  write  to  him  then,  and  tell  him  you  de- 
cline any  more  letters  for  the  next  two  years — until  you  have 
quitted  school.     Wlut  else  am  I  to  say  to  him  for  you  ?  " 

"  Nothing  else,  thanks." 

'*  I  shall  send  him  your  love,  of  zonr^  ?  "  Dot  a  says,  car* 
lessly,  going  to  the  door. 

**No/*^  Vera  exclaims,  so  sharply  and  quickly  that  hei 
sister  starts.  "  No  I  Remember  that.  Dot — no  sending  of 
love.  I  send  none.  I  am  well,  and  do  not  wish  to  write. 
Nothing  but  that." 

"  Oh,  very  well,"  says  Mrs.  Charlton,  shrugging  her  shoui* 
ders,  "just  as  you  please.  Only  my  lord  will  not  believe 
it,  you  know.  You  never  made  any  secret  before  of  your 
open  affection  for  him." 

Vera  buries  her  face  in  her  hands.  Dora  does  not  intend 
that  last  as  a  Parthian  shaft,  but  it  goes  home  just  as  surely. 
Oh  I  how  true  it  is — how  shamefully  true  I  He  thinks  she 
is  dying  for  him,  no  doubt,  and  sends  her  this  sugar-plum  to 
solace  her  in  her  love-lorn  misery.  But  some  day  or  other 
her  turn  may  come,  and  if  it  ever  does,  he  shall  see  1 

Early  in  May  Vera  goes  to  school,  a  school  of  her  own 
choosin^^i"^"  Ursuline  convent.  Mrs.  Charlton  sees  her 
f  afely  domiciled  with  the  nuns,  and  then  departs  gayly  fof 
the  other  side  of  the  world  in  company  with  Mr.  and  Mrs, 
'I'rafton.  She  has  been  eight  months  a  widow  now,  and  is 
kookuig  forward  to  a  speedy  shedding  of  her  sable  plumes. 
She  has  grown  tired  of  the  pretty  widow's  cap,  and  black, 
though  not  unbecoming,  is  dismal  sort  of  wear.  She  *«  look- 
irig  forward,  also,  to  a  right  gay  time,  for  the  Trafton's  have 
been  abroad  before,  and  know  many  desirable  people. 

Life  is  commencing  for  Dora  Charlton  at  the  mature  age 
ci  seven-and-twenty.     And  she  is  net   disappointed.     She 


111 


ul:; 


A  LOOK  BEHtSD, 


Ml 


Ctioroughly  enjoys  her  new  existence  as  t  queen  Dee  where 

hitherto  she  has  been  a  worker. 

They  spend  May  and  June  in  London,  and  make  many 
acquaintances— then  they  go  to  Switzerland.  Everywhere 
the  fame  of  the  Charlton  millions  is  wafted  mysteriously  be- 
fore, and  the  pretty,  passie  little  golden-haired  American 
widow  IS  made  much  of  wherever  she  goes.  It  is  charming, 
it  is  intoxicating,  this  homage,  this  flattery,  this  admiration, 
this  deference  she  inspires.  She  spends  money  like  a  royal 
princess — perhaps  she  is  a  trifle  vulgar  in  her  prodigality— 
but  as  she  spends  it  all  on  herself  and  her  whims,  and  con- 
sidering  her  time  of  life,  and  that  she  has  to  make  up  for  a 
dozen  wasted  years,  she  is  not  so  greatly  to  be  blamed.  To 
see,  to  fancy,  is  to  have.  The  possessions  she  accumulates 
would  freight  a  small  vessel.  Suitors  are  not  lacking — be- 
fore she  has  been  two  years  a  widow  Dora  might  have  been 
thrice  a  wife,  if  she  had  had  a  taste  for  polygamy.  But  she 
says  no  gayly,  even  though  one  of  the  rejected  is  a  German 
Graf,  with  two  score  quartering,  a  castle  on  the  Rhine,  a 
legion  of  dead  ancestors,  and  not  a  penny  in  his  purse. 

She  has  everything  her  heart  def>ires — money,  freedom, 
admiration — the  world  is  all  before  her  where  to  choose. 
Marry  !  not  she.  Her  wealth  will  swell  the  empty  coffers 
of  no  roly-poly  German  baron,  or  needy  Italian,  or  fortune 
hunting  foreigner  of  any  kind.  A  wealthy  young  widow  is 
the  freest  of  all  created  beings.  Love  !  Bah !  she  is  riine- 
and-twenty  and  has  never  felt  it ;  only  fools  and  beggars  fall 
in  love.  She  has  never  lost  an  hour's  sleep  or  a  single  din- 
ner for  the  sake  of  any  man,  and  she  never  will.  No  man 
on  earth  is  worth  one's  freedom.  Marry  I  she  laughs  at  the 
njtion — the  old,  shrill,  eldritch  laugh.  And  still  laughing 
ga)ly,  and  saying  no  to  the  German,  who  follows  her  like  a 
fair-haired,  fat  shadow,  she  dances  on  to  Brussels,  and  there 
meets  Mr.  Dane  Fanshawe. 
it 


m 


'  n 


U2       '•LOVE  TOOK  UP  THE  GLASS  OF  TIMm,'' 


;ftlii 


':;m 


'!|M)|! 


CHAFFER    III. 

i 

"LOVE   TOOK   UP  THE   GLASS   OF  TIMl.' 

HE  meets  him  in  a  commonplace  way  enough,  Brad 
shaw  in  hand,  and  eye-glass  on  nose,  one  of  a 
crowd  of  other  American  sight-seers.  He  is  a 
Cook's  tourist,  doing  Europe  with  a  lot  of  other  "  Cookies,* 
but  some  bond  of  union  must  exist  in  their  souls,  for  the) 
fraternize  at  once.  Then  they  meet  again  at  the  opera,  then 
at  a  dinner  of  the  American  Legation,  then  a  a  ball,  whero 
Dora  finds  out  that  as  z..  waltzer  he  is  simply  one's  ideal  man. 
Not  that  she  has  ever  had  an  ideal  man,  but  if  she  had  she 
rathei  thinks  he  would  have  possessed  a  beautiful  blonde 
beard,  handsome,  short-sighted  blu*?  eyes,  a  faultless  taste  in 
dress,  a  low,  lazy  pleasant  voice,  and  be  past-master  of  the 
art  of  waltzing.  Not  a  ^ery  high  ideal,  you  perceive,  but 
Dora  never  mounts  among  the  stars,  and  the  virtues,  the 
ball-room  gas  jets,  and  the  ball-room  accomplishments  are  as 
high  as  ^he  can  look. 

Mr.  Dane  Fanshawe  is  a  gentleman,  whose  voice  lingers 
pleasantlj^t  in  her  mekiiory,  whose  smile  she  recalls  with 
another  smile  of  sympathy,  whose  compliments  come  back  to 
her  With  a  small  thrill  of  satisfied  vanity  that  is  quite  new  in 
her  experience  of  herself.  And  why,  she  woridcrs  ?  He  is 
handsome,  but  others  are  handsomer;  he  is  agreeable,  but 
others  have  been  so  before  him  ;  he  waltzes  well,  but  so  did 
that  tall  Austrian  who  was  so  very  attentive  only  a  few 
months  ago  Dora  is  puzzled,  but  pleased ;  she  is  on  the 
edge  of  the  precii  ice  she  has  laughed  at,  but  the  edge  is 
flower-strewn,  and  the  pitfall  hidden  in  roses.  Mr.  Fari- 
diawe  takes  no  especial  pain!>  to  please  her  ;  it  is  not  hii 


N 


••XOW  TOOX  UP  THE  GLASS  JF  TIME:*       943 


way  to  take  especial  pains  about  anything ;  the  weather  ii 
hot,  sight-scding,  galleries,  churches,  and  all  that,  fatiguing-  - 
he  has  enough  to  do  in  six  days  jf  Brussels  without  tht 
added  labor  of  trying  to  win  a  lady's  favor.  He  is  not  half 
so  assiduous  as  some  of  the  other  n-en ;  she  is  rich,  she  is 
not  bad-looking,  but  he  has  heard  she  has  for'-'vnrn  marriage  ; 
and  what  is  the  use  ?  He  thinks  this  languidly  one  day  ai 
he  watches  the  devotion  of  those  other  men,  and  meanderi 
by  himself  with  bored  patience  among  the  Vandycks  and 
Rubens.  Perhaps  it  is  this  very  indifference,  which  she 
sees  is  thoroughly  genuine,  that  keeps  him  in  her  thoughts. 
It  piques  her.  What  business  has  he  to  stand  yawning 
there,  three  yards  off,  putting  up  his  glass  to  scrutinize  one 
of  Paul  Peter's  painted  women,  and  heeding  no  more  th« 
other  painted  woman  so  near  him  than  the  pillar  against 
which  he  negligently  leans?  Then  they  part;  the 
"Cookies"  go  one  way,  the  party  Mrs.  Charlton  is  with 
another. 

It  is  now  close  upon  the  third  year  of  her  widowhood  and 
the  Traftons  have  long  ago  returned  to  New  York.  But  the 
world  is  small,  and  people  come  together  somehow  in  the 
changing  revolutions.  They  meet  a  second  time  in  Paris,  and 
visit  more  galleries  and  churches,  and  drive  in  Lhe  Bois,  and 
walk  through  the  gardens  of  the  Luxe  nbourg,  and  dine,  and 
waltz  together  once  more.  He  shall  oe  like  the  res^  Dora 
vows  ;  he  shall  feel  her  power ;  he  shall  bo*  down  and  do 
her  homage  ;  he  shall  lay  aside  that  languid  Dundreary  iii, 
and  wake  up  to  the  knowledge  that  she  is  still  a  young 
woman,  a  pretty  woman,  a  fr  ?e  woman.  Of  the  result  to 
herself  she  does  not  stop  to  jhink.  Paris  is  pleasant,  and 
both  enjoy  it ;  they  have  a  community  of  tastes— they  are 
idndied  souls.  They  cross  in  the  8ani«  ship,  and  are  in  com- 
mon pathetically  sea-sick.  They  walk  the  deck,  ^hey  sit  Id 
sunny  nooks,  they  compare  notes,  they  learn  each  others 
histories,  they  run  up  and  down  the  old  threadbare  gaiput 


iiii  i 


!,  1,1 


'■I    I 


nil!  i 


!! 


■'lii. 


;!  . 


!     t 
1     t 


•i     ' 


944      **LOVE  TOCK  Uf  THE  GLASS  OF  TiMB^* 

of  flirtation.    Then  they  land,  and  once  more  their  patiii 
swerve  asunder. 

**  How  is  it  that  lore  coma  / 
It  comes  unsoight,  unsent.** 

Dora  wakes  up  to  the  discovery  that  life  without  Mr. 
Dane  Fanshawe  is  a  blank.  She  wakes  up  to  the  knowledge, 
and  is  thoroughly  disgusted.  At  her  time  of  life,  too — she 
tells  the  truth  to  herself — nearly  thirty,  and  he — he  is  just  ai 
languid,  just  as  gracefully  indolent,  just  as  Dundrearyish  ai 
ever  ;  not  one  whit,  she  is  positively  sure,  in  love  with  her, 
I^et  a  woman  be  never  so  vain,  there  is  an  instinct  in  these 
things  that  tells  her  the  truth  if  she  will  but  listen.  He  if 
]xx)r,  too ;  he  owns  it  with  a  delightful  frankness  that  char- 
acterizes everything  he  says.  He  has  no  prospects,  no  pro- 
fession, no  ability;  he  is  just  a  well-looking,  well-dressed, 
well-mannered  nonentity,  drifting  along  on  a  legacy  lately 
left  him.  But  what  is  all  that  ?  She  cannot  forget  him,  she 
misses  him  exceedingly,  there  is  no  one  she  meets  who  suits 
her  so  welL  She  is  impatient  and  angry  with  herself,  and 
plunges  into  the  "  vortex  "  of  fashionable  life,  determined  to 
forget  him.  But  after  New  Year  Mr.  Fanshawe  reappears 
on  the  surface,  and  plunges  into  the  vortex,  too.  Not 
piunges^xactly — to  do  anything  violent  or  muscular  is  not 
ill  Mr.  fanshawe,  and  the  verb  "  to  plunge  "  implies  both 
He  glides  in,  and  floats  round  and  round,  in  the  old  pleasant^ 
U  r.y^  aimless  way.  Naturally  they  meet  often,  and  it  comef 
to  pass  that  the  httle  victress  pulls  down  her  colors  and  lays 
tljera  humbly,  and  yet  regretfully,  at  the  feet  of  the  con- 
queror. Perhaps  no  one  is  more  honestly  surprised  than  the 
conqueror  himself.  He  has  not  done  much  to  bring  about 
this  consummatu;  —he  is  not  aware  that  he  has  ever  desired 
it  very  heartily  ;  still — she  is  very  rich,  and  net  so  old,  and 
not  so  bad-looking,  and — Mr.  Fanshawe  receives  the  con- 
gratulations of  his  friends  with  that  calm  sup«rioritv  to  aL 


•*LOVE  TOOK  UP  THE  GLASS  OF  TIME.^      ;«4S 


ir  patiM 


out   Mr. 

Dwledge, 
too — sha 
sjust  ai 
iryish  ai 
irith  her. 
in  these 
He  it 
lat  char- 
,  no  pro- 
-dressedi 
\y  lately 
him,  she 
ho  suits 
self,  and 
[lined  to 
appears 
.  Not 
*  is  not 
;s  both 

Leasant^ 
comes 

nd  lays 
con- 

lan  the 
about 

desired 

d,  and 
■le  con- 
to  aL 


le 


earthly  emotion  that  sits  upon  him  so  naturally  and  becom- 
ingly, wears  his  blushing  honors  calmly,  and  proposes.  Be 
fore  the  spring  buds  are  green  in  this  third  year  of  her  widow 
Qood,  Mrs.  Charlton  stands  pledged  to  become  speedily  Mrs, 
Dane  Fanshawe. 

And  Vera  ? 

Ail  this  time  Vera  has  been  in  her  convent,  and  Dora  hai 
not  seen  her  once.     But  she  goes  now,  and  Vera  is  sent  for. 

"Wonderfully  improved,  my  dear  Mrs.  Charlton — won- 
derfully improved,"  says  the  smiling  lady  superior,  "both 
physically  and  mentally.  Her  capacity  for  study  is  excel- 
lent ;  her  application  beyond  praise ;  her  deportment  in 
every  respect  a  model  of  obedience  and  propriety.  Her 
musical  ability  is  quite  out  of  the  common — her  voice  really 
remarkable.  I  think  you  will  find  the  result  of  Miss  Marti' 
nez's  three  years  with  us  eminently  satisfactory." 

She  does.  Vera  descends — at  least  a  tall  young  lady  fliei 
down-stairs  after  a  headlong  fashion  that  betokens  anything 
rather  than  the  repose  of  Vere  de  Vere — cries  out  in  a 
laughing,  sobbing,  delighted  cry  "  Dot !  "  and  flmgs  herself 
into  that  lady's  arms.  It  is  Vera,  but  a  Vera  so  changed,  so 
grown,  so  improved  out  of  all  knowledge  that  Dora  gazes  at 
her  with  eyes  of  wondering  delight.  Plain  I  Why  she  is  almost 
beautiful.  Thin!  She  is  as  plump  as  a  paitridge.  Hei 
complexion  has  cleared  up — from  dull  sallow  it  is  p.Ue  olive  ; 
her  cropped  hair  is  long  and  in  shining  abundance ;  her 
waist  and  shoulders  leave  nothing  to  be  desired  ;  her  handf 
are  slim,  white,  and  taper ;  her  air  is  self-poised  and  self-pos- 
sessc  d.  She  can  talk  easily  and  well ;  she  has  not  in  the 
least  the  manner  of  a  school-girl.  She  is  nineteen  now,  and 
is  to  graduate  this  commencement.  Dora  is  charmed,  if 
enchanted. 

"  Why,  you  pretty  child  I "  she  cries ;  "  how  you  have 
grown,  and  how  amazingly  you  have  improved.  I  should 
aev?r  have  known  you.     So  womanly,  so  well  rounded,  every 


I 


346       •LOVE  TOOr  UP  THE  GLASS  OP  TIME* 


;'i'i 


I!  .    ■ 


J  t     I 


m 


lip 


m 


bone,  and  joint,  and  angle  gone  I  and  you  did  so  nn  !• 
bones  and  angles  in  the  old  days,"  says  Dora,  plaintively,  bet 
head  a  little  on  one  side. 

Vcva  laughs,  tlie  old,  joyous,  sweet  girl's  laugh.  That, 
and  the  Murillo  eyes,  at  least  have  not  changed. 

"  Ah  1  do  1  not  know  that  ?  How  often  I  have  mourned 
over  those  sanie  Joints  and  angles  !  Yes,  they  have  not  starve . 
me.  My  one  terror  is  now  that  I  grow  fat.  But  I  banish 
the  thought — that  way  madness  lies.  You,  too,  Dot,"  gazing 
at  her  searchingly,  "have  changed." 

The  light  of  the  spring  afternoon  falls  on  Dora,  on  the  rich 
black  silk  costume  and  costly  India  shawl,  on  the  piquant 
little  Paris  bonnet,  and,  alas !  on  the  lost  complexion  and 
pearl  powder.  Dora  laughs,  but  shifts  uneasily  under  that 
clear,  searching  gaze. 

"  Dissipation  tells  after  a  while,  I  suppose,"  she  answers, 
**  and  I  really  have  been  frightfully  dissipated  this  winter. 
It  excites  me,  and  I  don't  sleep  well,  and  then — and  then  I 
take  to  chloral,  you  know,  and  that  is  bad.  1  must  go  down 
to  Charlton  early  this  year,  and  be  very  quiet,  and  try  if  I 
cannot  recuperate." 

^  She  sighs  in  patiently,  and  turns  away  from  the  mirror  into 
which  she  has  glanced.  The  tale  it  tells  is  not  flattering. 
Those  cfbw's-feet,  those  fine  sharp  lines  bet'veen  the  eyes, 
those  silver  threads  among  the  gold,  the  ycllcw  pallor  of  th' 
skin,  the  small,  transparent  hands  !  Dissipation,  exciteUicnt, 
chloral — something  is  telling  on  poor  Dora.  She  is  growing 
old  fast — awfully,  horribly  fast.  She  is  but  little  over  thirty ; 
one  should  have  no  crow's-feet  or  white  hair  at  thirty,  and  yet 
here  tliey  are.  To  grow  old — it  is  Dora's  nightmare,  her  hor- 
ror— it  turns  her  small,  fi-ail  body  cold  and  shivering  from 
head  to  foot  only  to  think  of.  She  is  faded  and  aged ;  she 
has  never  realized  it  so  appallingly  as  at  this  moment,  when 
she  looks  into  her  sister's  fresh,  fair  face,  with  every  youthftit 
curve  and  scft  Une  in  first  bloom. 


j 


^LOVE  TOOK  UP  THE  GLASS  OF  r/ME."       HT 


"You  look  a  little  worn,  I  think,"  Vera  says,  tenderly, 
jl,ityingly.  ''You  need  quiet  and  a  long  summer  down  at 
Charlton,  Dot.  And  I  would  give  up  chloral  if  I  were  you. 
Go  to  Charlton,  drink  fresh  milk  and  eat  strawberries,  drive 
about  die  countiy  roads,  try  sea-bathing,  and  going  to  bed  at 
nine  o'clock.  You  will  be  all  right  S£;ain  in  July,  when  I 
join  you — tr  part  no  more  this  time,  Dot"  She  throws  her 
arms  about  her,  and  gives  her  a  second  hug.  *'You  dar- 
ling ! "  she  exclaims,  "  it  seems  so  good  to  be  with  you  again. 
Oh,  Dot,  I  Aave  missed  you — missed  you  in  those  last  three 


i> 


years 

"So  I  should  hope,  dear,"  laughs  Dot,  herself  again. 
"  What  a  little  wiseacre  you  grow  1  '  Drink  fresh  milk  and  go 
to  bed  at  nine  o'clock  1 '  Is  that  the  secret  of  your  radiancti 
I  wonder  ?  And  so  you  have  missed  me  a  little,  in  spite  d 
all  the  ologies  and  dead  and  living  languages  ?  " 

**  More  than  I  can  say.  I  used  to  be  frightfully  Dot-sUk 
the  first  year,  and  it  never  quite  wore  away.  Your  long,  gos- 
sipy letters  were  such  a  comfort." 

"  I  thought  you  expected  to  have  no  time  for  letters  ? " 
says  Dora,  mischievously.  "  Did  you  miss  any  one  else,  I 
wonder  ?  " 

Vera's  color  does  not  rise.  Her  large,  dark^  solemn  eyei 
look  gravely  at  her  sister. 

*'  Where  is  Captain  Ffrench,  Dot  ?  " 

"No  one  seems  to  know.  He  and  I  have  not  corre. 
•pouded — oh !  for  ages.  I  wrote  him,  you  know,  that  you 
did  not  wish  to  receive  letters  from  him,  and,  as  I  warned 
you,  he  did  not  believe  me.  I  managed  tr  convince  him, 
howcvtr ;  since  then  I  have  heard  from  him  no  more.  He  if 
probitbly  in  Central  America  still." 

"  Not  unless  he  remained  after  the  expedition.  I  read  in 
a  papet  more  than  a  week  ago  that  Dr.  Englehart  and  hif 
band  of  scientific  explorers  had  returned  to  New  Yoik." 

**  Indeed  !  "  says  Dora,  startled.     She  looks  at  her  sister, 


II 


f 


248       ^ LOVE  TOOK  UP  THE  G  ASS  OF  rjME.* 


« 


lUvt 


but  the  pretty  eeriousness  of  her  face  tells  nothing, 
you  thought — have  you  made  up  your  mind '* 

**1  hav(  made  up  ray  mind  to  one  thing,"  says  Vera, 
throwing  back  her  head  with  a  rs,ther  haughty  gesture,  *'  that 
I  am  nothing  to  Captain  Ffrench,  and  never  can  be.  Kfai 
ried  to  him  I  am — that  cannot  be  undone— *'ut  ^hat  matriagc 
shall  never  force  me  upon  a  man  ^vho  jiearly  enough  gavr 
me—you  all — to  understand  from  the  first  that  he  did  not 
want  me.  Tka^  at  least  has  been  plain  to  me  for  a  very  long 
time." 

"It  is  «uch  a  pity  I  After  all,  it  was  not  necessary,  as 
things  turned  out.  No  one  need  ever  have  known  of  tha. 
night  at  Shaddeck — and  you  were  such  a  young  thing — too 
young  to  be  compromised.  I  think  the  marriage  was  a  mis- 
take." 

**  I  think  it  was  a  frightful,  an  irreparable  mistake,  Dot^ 
a  mistake  that  will  utterly  spoil  two  lives.    No,  not  spoil -~ 
I  shall  never  let  it  do  that  for  me,  but  for  him — poor  fe 
low " 

"  Ah  !  you  pity  him,  and  we  all  know  to  what  pity  is  akin 
Who  knows?  it  may  come  all  right  yet,  and  you  used  to 
be " 

"  Oh  I  Dot,  my  sister,  do  not  say  it — do  not  ever  say  that 
again.  ^I  have  suffered — I  have  suffered,  I  have  been  fit  to 
die  of  sR!une ;  I  am  still,  when  I  think  of  it.  To  know  that 
I  was  forced  upon  him,  that  he  was  obliged  to  mairy  me  ;  to 
know  how  he  must  teive  despised  me,  as  half  fool,  half  knave  I 
Dot  1  Dot !  I  go  wild  sometimes  1  If  I  could  die  to  givs 
him  back  his  liberty,  to  undo  that  day's  work,  I  w(  uld  di« 
this  hour  1" 

She  walks  up  and  down  the  room,  and  wrings  hei  hands. 
Her  gray  schooUdress  hangs  in  straight  folds  about  her,  with 
■omethi'^g  of  a  classic  air — her  pale  face,  her  wild  words,  the 
intense  expression  of  her  eyes,  give  her  the  look  of  a  traged/ 
queen.     It  strikes  Dora  in  that  light  and  she  laughs. 


••LOVE  TOOK  UP  THE  GLAtS  OF  TIMA^       349 


*'  My  dear  child,  if  you  do  it  half  as  well  when  you  i^radu- 
ate,  you  will  bring  down  the  house.  You  look  like  Ristori 
in  Marie  Stuart.  It  is  never  of  any  use  regretting  sjiy  thing 
ir.  that  tragic  manner ;  highflown  feelings  are  out  of  place  in 
the  age  we  live  in,  and  passions,  you  know,  were  never  made 
for  the  di  a  wing-room.  We  will  see  what  can  be  done.  1/ 
you  wish  it,  and  he  wishes  it,  and,  considering  everything, 
that  sort  of  marriage  should  not  be  irrevocable.  If  he  is  in 
New  York  I  will  see  him,  and  talk  it  over.  Now  I  will  say 
good-by  until  July." 

So  Dora  goes,  and  returns  to  the  city,  and  that  very  night, 
as  it  chances,  at  Wallack's,  sees  Captain  Ffrench.  H'^  comei 
in  with  sonie  other  men,  and  takes  his  place  in  the  stalls. 
Dora  leans  from  her  box  and  gazes  at  him.  How  brown 
and  manly  he  is,  how  silently  and  gravely  he  watches  the 
pt  .'>gress  of  the  playc  He  has  not  changed  at  all,  except  that 
three  years  under  a  Southern  sun  have  deepened  the  tints  of 
his  already  brown  skin. 

"Who  is  that  tall,  distinguished-looking  man?"  a  lady 
near  her  asks,  and  she  listens  curiously  for  the  answer. 
"That  is  Captain  Ffrench,  of  the  Honduras  Expedition, 
famously  clever  fellow.  Have  you  seen  his  new  book, 
*  Among  the  Silver  Mines  ? '  But  you  don't  read  that  sort 
of  thing." 

So  Fame  has  found  him  out — ^has  Fortune  ?  But  it  is  not 
likely ;  she  is  much  slower  of  foot  than  her  vapory  sister. 

Next  day  Captain  Ffrench  receives  a  note  fiom  the  widon 
of  his  step-father.  The  result  is  that  he  presents  himself  in 
tile  middle  of  the  afternoon,  and  is  ushered  into  her  pres- 
ence.  Dora  winces  a  little  under  the  steadfast  gaze  of  those 
strong  gray  eyes,  and  is  acutely  conscious  that  she  is  redden* 
tng  under  her  rouge.  She  flings  back  her  head,  defiantly — 
somehow  she  is  always  belligerent  with  this  man.  It  is  not 
exactly  a  phasant  interview,  although  a  silent  one  on  the 
gentleman's  pait.     He  lets  her  do  pxrtty  nearly  all  'he  talk 


i! 


:l'i| 


m 


ii< 


f  $0       ••LOVE  TOOX  UP  THE  GLASS  OF  TIME,^ 


".  i 


I  ! 


ing,  sitting  toying  with  a  paper-knife,  and  keeping  througfcooi 
the  same  silently  grave  look  that  struck  her  last  night.  Aftei 
all  he  is  changed,  too ;  that  old  easy,  insouciant  dash  of  for- 
mer days  is  gone.  It  is  a  very  thoughtful,  earnest-looking 
man  who  sits  before  her. 

"  I  have  just  come  from  Vera,"  she  says,  that  defiant  ring 
ttili  in  her  voice ;  "  it  is  from  her  I  learned  that  the  expe 
dition  had  returned.  She  saw  it  by  chance  in  the  news- 
papers." 

**  She  is  well,  I  trust  ?  "  he  says,  quietly. 

"  Quite  well,  thanks,  and  so  grown,  and  so  different  froro 
the  Vera  of  three  years  ago.  In  every  way  — in— every- 
way, Captain  Ffrench  ! "  she  says,  slowly  and  emphatically. 

He  looks  at  her  questioningly. 

"She  was  a  child  then,  younger  than  ner  years.  She  is  a 
woman  now,  and  older  than  her  years.  She  has  learned  to 
think  for  herself.  And  the  result  of  that  knowledge  is  that 
the  memory  of  her  marriage  is  spoiling  her  life." 

**  I  never  doubted  that  the  result  would  be  otherwise,"  he 
responds,  in  the  same  quiet  tone. 

**  It  was  a  mistake,  a  fatal  mistake — I  see  that  now.  She 
did  not  know  what  she  was  about ;  she  regrets  it  most  bit* 
terly.     She  would  give  her  life — she  told  me  so — to  be  free." 

**  I  do  not  doubt  it." 

"Yoil  take  it  very  coolly,"  Dora  says,  stung  to  anger. 
•'  Have  you  nothing  more  to  say  than  this  ?  " 

Ho  recalls  that  morning  at  Shaddeck  Light,  when  she 
stood  before  him,  flashing  angry  defiance,  as  she  is  doing 
now,  and  asking  him  the  very  same  question.  A  slight  smile 
dawns  on  his  face  at  the  supreme  ir  consequence  of  the  female 
mind 

"  Permit  me  to  remind  you,  madam,  that  from  first  to  last 
[  am  not  to  be  held  responnole  in  this  matte? .  It  was  yon 
who  insisted  it  was  my  duty  to  marry  Vera ;  it  was  you  who 
asked  her  to  mairy  me.    Whatever  comes  of  that  marriage 


**LOV£  TOOK  UP  THE  GLASS  OF  TIME,'*       %^\ 

ft  is  you  who  shall  look  to  it !  I  positively  decline  to  hare 
the  blame  shifted  on  my  shoulders.  Why  you  insisted  upoQ 
it,  Heaven  only  knows.  In  the  light  of  later  events — your 
marriage  " — the  strong,  steadfast  eyes  bring  the  angry  bloou 
to  her  cheeks  once  more — "I  confess  I  cannot  see  your 
motive.  I  am  in  no  way  a  desirable  parti.  I  am  a  poo& 
man,  and  likely  to  remain  so.  I  have  n3  time  to  make 
money,  if  I  had  the  inclination.  I  lead  a  wandering  life  ;  I 
have  no  prospects.  No,  Mrs.  Charlton,  I  am  at  a  loss  to 
understand  your  object  in  insisting,  as  you  did,  on  this  mar- 
riage. And,  aftv'^r  having  insisted  upon  it,  to  try  to  shift  the 
blame  of  spoiling  your  sister's  life  upon  me,  '*'•  a  little  too 

"ch.  You  made  the  match,  Mrs.  Charlton — you  must  bear 
i^  blame." 

She  sits  silent,  beating  an  angry  devil's  tattoo  with  her 
M>ot,  two  hot,  red  spots  on  her  cheeks.  What  he  says  is  so 
bluntly,  hatefully,  uncompromisingly  true. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  Vera,"  he  suddenly  says. 

**You  cannot  see  her,"  Dora  answers,  angrily,  glad  to 
thwart  him  ;  "  she  does  not  wish  to  see  you.  She  is  still  at 
school,  and  studying  hard  to  graduate.  She  refused  to  write 
to  you  from  the  first — you  may  infer  from  that  how  her  sen- 
timents have  changed." 

"Yes,"  he  says,  coolly;  'the  change  is  remarkable, 
mdeed." 

*  You  intimate  that  she  was  in  love  with  you,"  Mrs, 
v.harlton  goes  on,  still  more  angrily ;  "well,  she  never  was  1 
It  w«s  a  girl's  foolish  fancy  for  the  only  young  man  she 
knew  ""  A  sarcastic  smile  curves  Captain  Ffir  nch's  mus- 
lached  mouth.  "She  was  not  in  love  with  you.  Captain 
Ffrench,  e/thet  then  or  ever." 

He  rises. 

"  I  have  an  engagement  at  five,"  he  says,  still  with  peried 
composure.     "  Is  there  anythmg  more,  Mrs.  C'harlton  ?  " 

**  Are  you  going  to  remain  m  New  York  ?  "  she  aski. 


^$2       **LOVM  TOOK  Uf  THE  GLASS  09  TUMM^ 


"  For  this  month,  yci*" 

"  And  ttien  ?  " 

An  amused  look  comes  into  his  face. 

"  Your  interest  does  me  honor.     Then  I  go  to  Cuba.  * 

"To  join  the  war?"  she  cries,  eagerly,  "to  figiit  foi 
Cuba!" 

"  To  fight  for  Cuba.  Fighting  and  engineering  are  ay 
trades,  you  know." 

Her  face  clears  up.  WhaT  u  short  cut  this  is — how  easy  a 
way  of  severing  the  Gordian  icnot.  A  man  goes  to  the  wars, 
and  the  chances  are  five  to  one  against  his  ever  coming 
back.  And  to  Cuba  of  all  places,  where  malaria  lays  more 
low  than  Spanish  bullets.  Climate  and  bullets  he  cannot 
both  escape,  a  beneficent  Providence  will  never  permit  it 
This  Ffrench  is  just  the  sort  of  reckless  dare-devil  to  lead 
forlorn  hopes,  and  storm  breaches,  and  head  mad  cavalry 
charges. 

Go  to  Cuba !  why  it  is  the  very  thing  of  all  things  sh* 
would  have  desired.  Her  face  lights  up  so  swiftly  and 
brightly  that  he  laughs  outright  as  he  turns  to  go.  He  reads 
every  thought  she  thinks. 

"  Good-by,  Mrs.  Charlton.  Say  it  to  Vera  for  me,  wilJ 
you,  and  tell  her  not  to  maice  herself  unhappy  about  the 
foolish^ast.  A  ball,  or  a  fever  may  end  it  all,  and  will  be 
better  e^ery  way  than  the  divorce  court.  Once  more,  adieu." 

So  he  goes,  still  laughing,  but  in  his  secret  heart,  hurt, 
sore,  impatient.  He  does  not  blame  Vera — the  change  was 
inevitable  ;  only  that  she  should  blame  him^  should  hate  him, 
is  not  so  ensy  to  bear. 

"She  was  such  a  dear  httie  soul,  too,"  he  thinks,  regret- 
fiilly ;  "so  frank,  so  true.  Why,  her  very  name  means 
tnie,  'found  faithful.'  And  she  has  grown  up  Mke  her  sister, 
no  doubt  with  powder  and  paint  on  her  face,  shallow  of  soul, 
and  artificial  of  manner  I  Yes,  Cuban  fevers  or  Spaniak 
kmllets  are  better  than  that." 


/<    ^1 


•*LOVE  TOOK  UP  TUB  GLASS  OF  TIME,''       «$3 


July  comes,  and  with  it  Vera  back  to  Charlton,  for  the 
l&rst  time  since  she  left  it.  Green  and  lovely  it  lies  under 
the  midsummer  sun,  its  roses  in  bloom,  its  trees  in  leaC  iU 
fruits  ripening  on  the  laden  bnnches.  Dora  has  chanf^ed 
and  enlarged,  and  improved,  but  nothing  she  sees  is  so  much 
changed  as  herself.  St.  Ann's,  sleepy  as  ever,  lies  blistering 
in  the  white  heat,  the  black  water  slipping  about  its  rotting 
wharves,  and  Sunday  stillness  in  its  grass-grown  streets,  ai 
of  yore.  Yonder  is  Shaddeck  Light.  The  tide  ebbs,  and 
the  tide  flows,  and  the  little  gray  cabin  stands  lonely,  and 
dropping  to  decay  on  its  wind-beaten,  wave-washed  rock.  Up 
there  is  the  white  church  on  the  hill,  with  its  tall  gilt  cross 
flashing  in  the  sun,  wnere  she  drove  one  August  morning, 
and  Captain  Dick  put  a  wedding-ring  on  her  finger — the  ring 
she  has  never  worn.  Here  is  the  summer-house  where  she 
crouched  in  her  agony  oi  shame,  and  heard  the  truth  from 
merciless  lips.  Here  is  his  room,  or  the  room  that  us**^  to 
be  his — it  is  Mr.  Dane  Fanshawe's  now — and  the  litter  of 
pipes  of  all  sorts,  the  litter  of  side-arms  and  fire-arms  of  all 
nations,  the  litter  of  books,  scientific,  mathematical,  with 
here  and  there  a  Dickens,  or  a  Thackeray,  or  an  Irving 
peeping  out — have  all  been  swept  away  to  the  attic.  Only 
Eleanor  Charlton's  portrait,  oddly  enough,  remains,  the  head 
in  crayons,  brought  from  Shaddeck  Light.  It  hangs  over 
the  mantel,  and  smiles  with  grave  sweetness  on  the  slumbers 
of  the  man  Dot  delights  to  honor.  Vera  visits  the  room 
shortly  after  her  arrival,  a  muscular  chamber-maid  playing 
propriety  and  making  the  bed,  and  looks  at  it  musingly. 
Poor  Nelly,  gentle  Nelly,  patient  Nelly,  where  is  she  now  ? 
When  last  Vera  heard  from  her  she  had  gone  with  a  family 
to  travel  in  Europe,  and  perhaps  has  not  returned.  She 
•tands  abstractedly  gazing  at  the  picture,  and,  still  before 
it,  Mr.  Dane  Fanshawe  finds  her,  as  he  unexpectedly 
appears. 

"I  thoight  jrou  had  gone  with  Do  ,"  Vera  says,  with  • 


111 


11 


i    * 


954       **LOrB  TOOK  UP  7 ACS  GLASS  OF  TliUU* 


m\' ' 


nervous  little  laugh,  and  moving  away.  **  Shall  I  apolo|^ 
for  this  intrusion  ?  "  . 

"  Not  at  all — my  apartment  is  honored.  I  am  going  with 
Dot — I  mean  Mrs.  Charlton — but  I  forgot  my  gloves.  Yon 
are  looking  at  that  portrait?"  he  says,  suddenly.  "Yoa 
knew  her  ?  " 

"  O,  very  well — dear,  quiet,  pretty  Eleanoi  I  Is  it  not  a 
street  face,  Mr.  Fanshawe  ?  " 

He  does  not  answer  at  once.  He  stands  and  looks  at  it| 
and  somethiug  like  a  moody  shade  darkens  his  face. 

"  It  is  very  well  done,"  he  says,  after  that  pause.  ''Who 
was  the  artist  ?  " 

"  An  amateur,  I  believe,"  Vera  answers,  moving  to  the 
door.     "  Yes,  it  is  very  like." 

"  I  wonder  why  they  left  it  here  ?  " 

Something  odd  in  his  tone  makes  her  look  at  him.  Hit 
face  is  generally  most  gracefully  blank  of  all  expressioUi  but 
at  present  it  wears  an  expression  that  puzzles  Vera. 

"  Because,  I  suppose,  it  seemed  to  belong  here  of  right. 
The  gentleman  who  sketched  it  lodged  in  this  room.  If  you 
object  to  it,  Betsy  can  take  it  away — /  should  very  much 
like  to  have  it." 

"  By  no  means,"  he  says,  hastily ;  "  I  prefer  to  see  it 
here.  A  pretty  face,  on  Bristol  board  or  off,  is  always  a  de- 
sirable possession.  And  I  like  the  room  as  Mrs.  Charlton 
K'is  arranged  it." 

Vera  frowns,  and  goes.  His  old  manner  has  quite  re- 
turned, and  she  does  not  like  that  old  manner  nor  the  man 
himself.  He  is  here  with  half  a  dozen  other  summer  guest?, 
but  he  is  here  with  a  difference.  She  knows  all ;  the  mai- 
riage  is  to  take  place  m  September,  and  she  is  jealous  and 
l)rovoked.  The  first  shock  of  surprise  is  over,  but  she  can. 
rot  reconcile  herself  to  it.  Why  need  Dot  marry  ?  Why 
car  they  two  not  live  together  all  their  lives,  a  id  be  all  in  ail 
to  ?ac:h  otb^r,  Witliout  any  obnoxious  husbands  comitig  V^ 


ing  with 

8.    Yon 

"You 

it  not  • 

>ki  at  it, 

"Who 

I  to  the 

im.    Hit 
sion,  but 

of  right. 
If  you 
much 

see  it 

^ys  a  de- 

'harlton 

luite  re- 
the  man 

guests, 
[he  mai' 
[ous  amt 

mc  can. 
Why 

dl  in  all 

liiig  V^ 


•  **lOrE  TOOK  UP  THE  GLASS  OF  TIME**       JSS 

twecD  f  And  if  he  were  the  right  sort  of  a  man,  a  manly 
man,  not  an  idle  vaurien^  caring  only  lor  Dot's  fortune  I 
Vera  has  an  image  in  her  mind,  her  "mas  of  men/'  once  and 
alwa3-s,  and  very  unlike  this  languid,  handsome  dandy.  To 
think  of  Dof  s  falling  in  love  with  a  perfumed  coxcomb,  with 
golden  locks,  parted  down  the  middle,  eyes  that  look  half 
asleep,  and  an  everlasting  lassitude  and  weariness  upon  him 
that  makes  her  long  to  box  his  ears  I 

**  I  wonder  if  a  sound  box  on  the  ear  would  rouse  him  ?  ** 
she  thinks,  irritably  ;  "  we  would  both  be  happier  and  bettei 
if  I  could  administer  it  What  can  Dot  see  in  a  scented  fop 
like  that  ?  " 

Dot  sees  in  him  not  a  whit  more  than  there  is  to  see — hii 
thoughts  are  her  thoughts,  his  world  her  world,  his  intellect 
hers.  She  idealizes  him  not  at  all,  but  he  suits  her.  And 
she  means  to  marry  him. 

**  Does  he  know  about  the  will  ?  "  Vera  asks  one  day ; 
"about  the  estate  foing  to — Captain  Ffrench  at — your — 
when  you " 

"AS^/"  Dora  says,  sharply.  «Why  should  I  teU 
him  ?  What  a  fool  I  was,  to  be  sore,  in  that,  as  in  the  other 
thing." 

''  I  think  he  ought  to  know,"  Vera  says,  slowly. 

"  And  why  ?  It  is  no  business  of  his.  I  am  rich,  uA  I 
am  going  to  marry  him — that  is  enough  for  him.  Dc  you 
think  he  is  marrying  me  for  my  money  ? 

Vera  is  silent — there  are  times  when  truth  need  not  be 
|mt  in  words. 

"  He  is  not  I "  Dora  exclaims,  irritably ;  "  he  is  no  for- 
ttme-hunter.  And  if  he  is,  it  serves  him  right  to— not  to 
know.     I  shall  not  tell  him.     Let  him  find  out  fc/r  nimself.* 

Mr.  Fanshawe  does  find  out,  and  very  quickly^  naturally, 
after  the  marriage.  He  makes  the  discovery  during  the 
honey-moon  trip,  and  what  he  thinks  his  bride  knows  not ; 
that  expressionless  face  of  hif  stands  him  in  good  «tead.     He 


!   < 


/' 


'^I'  ■:  ;; 


ZS6       "LOVE  TOOK  UP  THE  GLASS  OF  TIMEJ* 


Mil  II:; 


li  li 


lt)« 


:"i^ 


;.|i:iip 


i!t 


(lllll 


is  too  indolent  to  exercise  himself  much  over  the  inevitablt 
at  any  time. 

'*  I  must  make  all  the  more  hay  while  the  sun  shines/*  he 
thinks^  if  he  thinks  at  all  "  She  is  rich,  and  she  is  my  wife 
DOW.  I  do  not  think  she  is  likely  to  live  long,  and  aA.er  that 
— well,  after  that,  I  shall  be  able  to  say  at  least,  *Come 
what  /ill,  I  have  been  blessed.'  If  she  will  have  luxuries 
the  must  pay  for  them." 

This  sounds  heartless,  put  into  words,  but  Mr.  Dane  Fan< 
shawe  is  by  no  means  a  heartlsss  sort  of  fellow — not  robustly 
bad  indeed,  in  any  way,  not  unkind,  not  inattentive,  not,  for 
ihe  matter  of  that,  without  a  sort  of  liking  for  the  rich  widow 
he  has  made  his  wife.  That  is  to  say  at  first,  for  with  time 
comes  change.  Dora  is  exacting,  and  Dane  is  not  disposed 
to  inconvenience  himself  to  please  her.  He  spends  too 
much  money,  he  stays  out  too  late,  he  comes  home  in  the 
small  hours,  reeking  of  cigars  and  wine,  he  gives  champagne 
suppers,  he  plays  monte  and  faro,  he  gambles  horribly  in 
fact.  He  has  just  one  passion  outside  his  intense  love  ol 
self — ^gambling.  She  is  not  long  in  finding  it  out,  and  money 
he  will  have.  Love  spreads  his  rosy  pinions  and  takes  to 
flight  There  are  scenes,  recriminations,  tears,  hysterics,  in 
the  nuptial  chamber.  Dora  scolds  shrilly,  passionately,* 
calls  him  a  brute,  stamps  that  tiny  foot  of  hers,  and  protest! 
she  will  Hesert  him,  will  divorce  him,  hates  liim,  wishes  she 
had  b:^n  dead  before  she  ever  married  him.  Mr.  Fanshawo 
bi^ns,  cooUy  sometimes,  smilingly  often,  pleasantly  always, 
ltd  when  very  much  disguised  in — cigars — laughs,  a  feeble, 
maudlin  laugh,  or  sits  down  on  the  side  of  the  bed  and  shed* 
tears,  or  drops  off,  in  a  limp  and  imbecile  way,  asleep  witA 
his  boots  on,  according  to  the  strength  and  quantity  of  the— 
cigars.  But  these  are  the  intervals.  For  months  .ogethei 
sometimes  things  go  smoothly,  and  Mr.  Fanshawe  is  the 
laidly-graceful,  languidly-agreeable  gentleman  of  touiist  daya^ 
as  polite  to  Dora  as  though  she  were  some  other  man>  "^e. 


••LOVE  TOOK  Uf  THE  GLASS  OF  TIMEJ*       a$7 


Ajid  through  it  all  Mrs.  Kanshawe  hides  the  disgraceful  truth 
from  her  sister.  Vera  has  always  disliked  the  man  and  the 
marriage,  and  that  "  1  told  you  so  "  look  is  about  the  must 
disconcerting  any  human  face  can  wear.  Dora  has  a  |)ro* 
foutid  resi>ect  for  her  stately  sister,  so  sensible  always,  as 
sensible  indeed  as  hough  she  were  not  a  pretty  woman,  and 
who  does  not  look  as  though,  under  any  combination  of  cir 
cumstances,  late  hours,  or  heady  cigars,  she  could  scold,  or 
stamp,  or  go  into  hysterics.  She  is  very  much  admired  ir 
Washington  society,  that  first  winter ;  has  a  number  of  ad- 
mirers, and  one  otfer.  They  go  to  Europe  in  the  spring — ^Verm 
is  a  good  American,  but  she  feels  she  must  see  Paris  before  ^t 
dies — must  see  Venice,  Naples,  Vienna,  Rome — most  of  all 
Rome.  It  is  the  dream  of  her  life,  and  Dora  indulges  her. 
Dora  indulges  her  in  all  things  ;  that  old  sisterly  love,  the  one 
puic,  unscliish  tning  in  Dora's  meagre,  selfish  life,  is  strongei 
than  ever.  It  rests  and  comforts  her  to  come  to  Vera  after  one 
of  these  stormy  scenes  with  her  inditfereivt  husband.  Her 
health  is  failing,  too,  she  needs  travel  and  change  ;  the  heart 
trouble  of  her  youth  is  more  troublesome  than  evw.  So 
they  go,  and  Vera,  happier  than  most  of  us,  has  the  desire 
of  her  heart,  and  does  not  find  it  turn  to  dust  and  ashes  in 
her  mouth.  Paris,  Venice,  Rome,  she  sees  them  all — she 
grows  brighter,  healthier,  handsomer,  every  day.  If  the 
memor)'  of  the  man  to  whom  she  is  married  ever  crosses  her 
thoughts  Dora  does  not  know  it.  She  never  speaks  of  him; 
But  taking  up  a  home  paper  one  day  she  reads  there  of  the 
capture  of  Las  Tunas,  and  among  the  list  of  mortally  wounded 
is  the  name  of  Captain  Richard  Ffrench.  He  had  fought 
like  a  lion,  and  had  fallen  with  a  bullet  through  the  heart. 

There  is  a  grand  ball  to  be  that  night,  and  a  superb  toi  fet 
has  come  home  for  Vera,  but  she  does  not  wear  it,  does  not 
JO.  Sb";  is  deadly  pale  when  Dora  meets  her  next,  but  if 
ike  sufifers  she  makes  little  sign.  She  goes  on  with  her  life 
^t  the  same,  and  hides  her  heart  jealously  from  all  the 


!■  I 
\ 

i; 

•  1  I 
!  \  J 


I  « 4 


i 


n 


:! 


25i 


4r  DAVTM  OF  DAY, 


world.  But  the  next  mail  contradicts  the  report— it  if  boI 
death,  only  a  bad  wound — a  ball  through  the  lung,  not  the 
heart.  Richard  Ffrench  is  not  dead,  or  going  to  die.  Don 
watches  her  with  great  interest  and  curiosity,  but  is  baffled- 
Dying  or  living,  they  can  hardly  be  more  asunder  than  they 
are ;  but  why  did  he  not  die  ?  It  would  be  so  much  more 
comfortable  every  way  I 

In  the  spring  of  the  second  year  they  return  to  London, 
intending  to  remain  until  July,  and  then  go  home.  And  this 
June  night — morning  rather — Dora  Fanshawe  stands  smiling 
under  the  chandelier,  and  holding  out  one  diamond-ringed 
hand  to  Colonel  Richard  Caryl  Ffrench. 


CHAPTER   IV. 


AT  DAWN  or  DAY. 


HE  comes  trailing  her  rich  dress  over  the  carpet, 
and  holding  out  her  jewelled  hand  "  in  her  lovely 

1^  silken  mutmur,  like  an  angel  clad  with  wings,"  he 
thinks,  seme  misty  memory  of  his  Browning  reading  in  the 
old  Eleanor  Charlton  days,  returning  to  him.  Only  after  all, 
Dot  is  not  the  sort  of  little  woman  in  any  attire  to  suggest 
aiigelic  metaphor — rather  she  is  like  an  opera  fairy  in  that 
shining  pink  silk,  and  all  those  milky  pearl  ornaments.  He 
wonders  as  he  looks  at  her — such  ripples  and  ringlets,  and 
twists  and  puffs  of  fluffy  gold  hair  I  On  whose  head  did  it  all 
grow?  Such  glimmering  small  shoulders,  ha^l  vailed  in 
frosty  lace  ;  such  a  dazzling  small  face,  all  snow-white  and 
rose-red ;  '.uch  gleaming  blue  eyes,  and  such  a  thin,  *hin 
little  hand.  He  could  span  the  fragi^  t  fairy  with  one  handi 
it  seems  to  him — such  an  old  fairy,  too,  when  one  is  near 


AT  DAWN  9^  DAY, 


9|f 


Out  of  his  dark,  wondering  eyes  a  sudden  coni(.Aitioii  look« 
Poor  little  Dot  1    It  is  a  hard  life^  this  treadmill  of  fashion, 
and  it  is  telling  on  her.     And  is  Vera  a  younger  copy  of 
this,  he  wonders,  as  he  holds  for  a  second  those  tiny,  ringed 
fingers,  and  if  so  what  a  pity,  what  a  pity  ! 

For  Dora,  she  looks  upon  the  stately  figure  of  a  tall  oA 
cer  in  undress  uniform— it  has  been  in  order,  it  seems,  to  be 
icmi-military  to-night ;  she  looks  at  thQ  "  burnt  sienna " 
complexion,  the  dark,  resolute  eyes — but  from  the  fixed  gazf 
of  these  latter  rath«»r  shrinks.  They  give  her,  they  always 
did  give  her,  an  uncomfortable  sense  of  being  transparent  as 
clear  glass  to  this  man  ;  they  seem  to  look  straight  through 
the  pink  and  white  so  artistically  laid  on,  and  read  the 
empty  heart,  the  hard  little  soul  below.  He  disconcerts  her 
before  ne  has  opened  his  lips,  but  she  laughs  gayly,  and 
greets  ^*m  after  the  airy  fashion  he  remembers  so  well. 

**  Ev^r  so  many  apologies  for  interrupting  your  gay  party, 
and  3U  this  hour.  How  surprised  you  must  have  been  at 
receiving  my  card.  And  at  three  in  the  morning !  As  if  it 
were  a  matter  of  l&e  and  death.  But  you  know  how  im- 
pulsive I  always  was,  and  I  grow  worse  every  day.  And 
really,  I  wanted  to  see  you  so  much.     Take  a  seat." 

She  waves  him  gracefully  to  a  chair,  and  sinks  into  an- 
other, the  pink  silk  dropping  into  flowing  folds,  and  the  point 
of  a  tiny  kidded  foot  peeping  out  effectively. 

"  Let  me  see — it  is  two,  yes,  three  years,  actually  three, 
.^ince  I  saw  you  last.  You  do  not  change  much  with  the 
revolving  seasons.  Captain — I  beg  your  pardon — Colonel 
Ffrench.  We  read  all  about  that,  you  know — your  bravery, 
and  your  wounds,  and  your  promotion.  Ah  !  how  terrible 
it  was — the  wounds  1  mean.  Report  said  you  were  dead. 
And  then,  again,  we  read  of  your  being  surrounded,  and  cap- 
tured, after  prodigies  of  valor,  and  sent  a  prisoner  to  the 
Moro.  And  how  once  you  were  sentenced  to  be  shot  a2 
daybreak,  and  only  were  rescued  at  the  eleventh  houi,     W« 


i    * 


li, 


AT  DAWN  AT  DAJt. 


%  ;! 


iM 


know  all  ibout  you,  you  lee  ;  we  nave. Allowed  you  chroiigh 
all  your  deeds  of  '  derring  do.'  What  a  charmed  life  yon 
muft  bear,  Colonel  Ffrench." 

He  smiles  ever  so  slightly.  She  runs  on  so  rapidly  that 
she  gives  him  no  time  to  speak,  even  if  he  were  90  inclined. 

**  I  only  found  you  out  this  afternoon  through  a  paragrayb 
in  the  Times y"*  she  continuef.  *<  How  iong  u  it  since  yoo 
came  to  London  ?  " 

"Three  days." 

'  "  Did  you  know  we  were  here  ?    But  of  coarse  you  did 
act     Do  you  remain  long  in  England  ?  " 

"  That  is  uncertain." 

His  curt  replies  are  in  contrast  to  her  easy  volubility,  bat 
they  do  not  disconcert  her.  She  has  got  over  her  first  awk* 
wardness,  and  is  quite  herself  once  more. 

"  You  return  to  Cuba,  I  suppose  ?  Ah  I  you  fire-eaters 
are  never  satisfied  away  from  the  field  of  glory.  And  hovi 
about  that  shot  through  the  lungs  ?  Quite  convalescent,  are 
you  not  ?  So  far  as  appearances  go,  I  think  I  never  saw 
you  looking  better." 

It  is  a  compliment  he  feels  he  cannot  honestly  return. 
Certainly  those  steadfast  eves  of  the  Cuban  colonel  see 
more  than  Mrs.  Fanshawe  intends  they  shall  see — paint, 
powder  J- perfume,  penciled  brows,  darkened  eyes,  false  hair, 
&lse  shape,  false  tongue,  false  heart — he  sees  alL  And 
Vera  is  like  this — poor  little  Vera  I 

"  You  did  not  know  we  were  here — how  could  you  ?  Our 
names  would  tell  you  nothing.  To  think  you  should  be  our 
very  next  door  neighbor  I  how  odd.  Did  you  visit  New 
York  before  crossing  over  ?  " 

"I  did  not." 

It  is  as  hard  to  extort  an  answer  fr^m  him  as  though  he 
were  in  a  witness-box,  and  she  the  counsel  for  the  other 
side  But  she  will  make  him  speak  before  she  is  done  with 
kira. 


AT  DAWN  0if  DAY, 


afi 


Our 

}e  our 

Nen 


[gh  he 
other 
with 


**  Then  you  have  not  hear  J  of  my  marriii;*  f  '* 

She  smilet  with  perfect  ease  as  the  layi  it,  and  pUjn  Oi^ 

quettishly  with  her  fan.     He  looks  tt  her,  but  not  in  loi 

prise. 

"  Youi  marriage,  Mrs.  Charlton " 

**  Ah  1 "  Dora  laughs.  "  I  knew  you  had  not.  Mrs.  Fan* 
ihawe^  please — Mrs.  Dane  Fanshawe.  It  is  nearly  two  yeaifl 
ago  now,  and  we  were  married  in  New  York.  I  sent  yoa 
cards,  but  of  course  you  did  not  get  your  mails  regularly, 
out  there  among  all  that  fighting.  It  is  late  in  the  day  for 
congratulat'ic<ns,  but  they  never  come  amiss." 

**  You  have  my  best  wishes  for  your  happiness,  Mit.  Fan- 
shawe." 

"  Almost  immediately  after  our  marriage  we  came  abroad, 
and  have  been  travelling  ever  since.  We  are  merely  stop- 
ping here  for  a  few  weeks  of  the  season,  and — and  because 
we  cannot  induce  Vera  to  leave." 

Her  name  has  been  spoken  at  last.  But  Colonel  Ffrench 
takes  it  very  calmly.  He  does  not  speak — he  sits  quietly, 
and  a  little  coldly,  waiting  for  what  is  to  come.  He  has 
always  distrusted  this  woman ;  he  distrusts  her  more  than 
ever  to-night. 

"  Yf*-x2i  is  with  us,  of  course,  and — need  I  say  it  ? — It  is 
entirely  on  her  account  that  1  have  asked  for  this  interview. 
Living  in  the  same  hotel,  it  is  quite  impossible  but  that  you 
and  she  shall  speedily  meet.  And  before  that  meeting  takes 
place,  for  her  sake,  for  your  own,  it  is  best  I  should  speak 
to  you." 

She  is  warming  to  her  work.  He  is  not  a  yexy  promiung 
lookiny*  subject,  as  he  sits  there  with  that  impassive  counte- 
nance, but  Dora's  faith  in  herself  and  her  strategic  abilities  is 
boundless.  She  is  one  of  the  cla^s  to  whom  all  success  is 
l)ossible,  because  they  believe  in  themselves.  She  is  resolved, 
by  fair  means  or  foul,  to  give  Vera  back  her  freedom.  If 
sisterly  tact,  and  a  few  sisterly  lies,  can  do  it,  she  is  resniTtd 


'■I 


I; 


i  I  f. 


I      ! 


i\ 


AT  DAWN  OF  DAY. 

that  Vera  ihall  be  Lady  Talbot  This  man  it  the  onl)  ob 
stacle  in  the  way,  and  th.s  man,  though  he  were  twice  as  big, 
and  brown,  and  determined-looking,  shall  soon  be  an  obstada 
lemoveo, 

"  Colonel  Ffrench,"  she  says,  leaning  a  little  forwaid,  aii<? 
lA))ping  emphatically  with  her  fan,  **  six  years  ago  a  great 
mistake  was  made,  one  that  I  have  never  ceased  to  regret. 
The  fault  was  mine,  I  freely  admit  that  All  the  same, 
it  was  a  horrible  mistake,  but  1  trust  not  an  irreparable 
one." 

She  pauses,  but  the  calm,  attentive  face  before  her  is  im- 
passive as  a  handsome  mask.  What  she  has  said  needs  no 
reply,  and  receives  rone. 

"  From  the  day  of  that  marriage  Vera  changed — from  a 
frolicsome,  heedless  child  she  became  silent,  J'spkitM,  almost 
moody.  She  had  fancied  you  in  a  wild,  childish  fashion,  as 
little  girls  almost  always  do  fancy  young  men.  She  consented 
heedlessly  to  the  marriage,  and  the  moment  it  was  over  re- 
pented of  it.  That  repentance  has  deepened  with  every 
passing  year.  She  refused  to  write  to  you,  though  I  urged 
her  to  do  so ;  she  refused  to  see  you  on  your  return  from 
Honduras ;  she  has  never — no,  not  once — spoken  your  name 
voluntarily  in  my  hearing  since  that  time.  Unjust  to  you 
this  undoubtedly  is,  but  women  do  not  reason,  you  know, 
tliey  act  -ftsom  their  feelings.  And  Vera's  feelings,  so  far  as 
you  are  concerned,  and  so  far  as  I  can  read  them,  for  she  is 
sensitivel)  secret  on  this  point,  have  undergone  a  total  re- 
vulsion. From  a  girl's  foolish  fancy  they  have  changed  to  a 
woman's  unreasoning  aversion.  Pardon  the  w)rd,  but  the 
truth  is  always  best." 

The  shadow  of  a  smile  dawns  and  fades  on  the  soldierly 
face.  Truth  from  the  lips  of  this  glib  little  liar  1  Slight  as  it 
is,  Dora's  quick  eyes  catch  it,  and  she  bristles  up  defiantly 
At  once.  She  sits  very  erect,  her  gleaming  blue  e/es  flaib^ 
ing  upon  him. 


4T  DAWN  OP  DAY. 


a6j 


"  Pvdon  me,  Colonel  Ffrench,  do  you  doLJDt  what  I  tell 

you?    If  so " 

"  Pray  go  on,  Mrs.  Charl — ,  excuse  luc,  Mrs.  Fxnshawe. 

Why  should  I  doubt  it  ?  it  is  perfectly  natural,  and  pieciself 
what  was  to  be  expected.  So  Vera  detests  me.  Ah  I  I  aia 
sorry  for  that." 

"  Detest  is  perhaps  too  strong  a  word  ;  her  liking  changed 
to  dislike,  to  intense  annoyance  at  finding  herself  bound,  him 
gre  mal  gre^  to  a  man  she  did  not  care  for.  But  it  is  only  of 
late " 

Dora  breaks  off  in  pretty  embarrassment — the  subject  ii 
evidently  growing  delicate.  Colonel  Ffrench  watches  her, 
and  despite  his  seriousness,  there  is  an  unmistakable  gleam 
of  amusement  in  his  eyes.  The  farce  is  well  played,  but  what 
a  farce  it  is  1 

"  I  scarcely  know  how  to  go  on,"  pursues  Dora,  that  kit 

tenish  confusion  still  upon  her,  "  the  subject  is  so — is  so 

Colonel  Ffrench,  you  must  not  blame  my  sister  too  much ; 
remember,  our  feelings  are  not  under  our  control  *  to  love  or 
not  to  love.*     And  Vera  is  so  young,  so  attractive,  so ^" 

**  Pray  do  not  distress  yourself  to  find  excuses.  Mrs. 
Fanshawe,"  says  Colonel  Ffrench  coolly.  "  My  wife  has 
fallen  in  love  with  another  man — that  is  what  you  wish  me  to 
understand,  I  think?" 

She  laughs  a  short,  uneasy,  angry  laugh 

*'  You  put  it  in  plain  English  at  least ;  but  that  was  alwayi 
one  of  your  virtues,  I  remember.  Yes,  Colonel  Ffrench, 
unconsciously  to  herself,  with  pain,  with  remorse,  with  fear 
for  the  future,  Vera's  heart  has  gone  from  her — ^her  woman's 
heart,  for  the  first  time." 

**  Let  us  hope  at  least  it  has  gone  into  worthy  keeping. 
Might  one  ask  the  name  of  one's  favored  riva<  ?  " 

**  Presently — all  that  in  time.  Wcul  \  thatt  every  husband 
were  as  amenable  to  reason  as  you,  my  ocar  colonel !  But, 
then,  every  husband  does  not  marry  ar4  desert  hi«  bride 


h 


%. 


\ 


?  - 1  -1 


U 


V9\ 


m 


fllllil? 


S64 


AT  DAWN  OF  DAT. 


'jnder  the  same  exceptional  circumstances.  She  hat  giTea 
her  love  to  one  in  every  way  worthy  the  gift,  to  one  wha 
centres  in  himself  high  rank,  great  wealth,  ancient  Uneage, 
talent,  and  title." 

"  Title  !  "  interrupts  Richard  Ffrench,  and  smiles.  "  Yoo 
rank  the  gentleman's  perfections  in  the  order  of  ecclesiasti- 
cal processions,  I  see — the  greatest  comes  last." 

"And."  gots  on  Mrs.  Fanshawe,  the  angry  glitter  deepen- 
ing ii  \ .  eyes,  "  to  one  who  loves  her  truly,  dee])ly,  greatly. 
The.^  >s  .at  one  obstacle  to  their  perfect  happiness,  and 
that '' 

"  A  by  no  means  uncommon  one,  I  believe,  in  those  up- 
lifted circles — an  obnoxious  husband.  All  this  time,  my 
dear  madam,  I  sit  in  ignorance  of  the  name  of  this  paragon — 
this  rich,  highly  born,  highly  bred,  titled  gentleman  who  as- 
pires to  the  hand — no — the  heart,  of  the  lady  at  present  my 
wife." 

"  To  both  hand  and  heart,  Colonel  Ffrench,  with  your  per- 
mission. The  gentleman  is  Sir  Beltram  Talbot,  Baronet ; 
his  devotion  to  my  sister  has  been  from  the  first  the  talk  of 
the  town." 

"  Ah  !  and  she  returns  this  very  ardent  devotion,  you  tell 
me  ?  And  I  am  in  the  way.  But  to  so  clever  a  lady  ai 
yourself,  Mrs  Fanshawe,  what  does  an  obstacle  more  or  lest 
signify  ?  I  -am  in  your  hands.  What  am  I  to  do  ?  You 
made  this  match — ^how  do  you  propose  to  unmake  it?  " 

"  Sir,  if  you  treat  this  subject  as  a  jest ** 

"  Not  at  all ;  I  am  profoundly  in  earnest.  Far  be  it 
from  me  to  shew  unseemly  levity  where  the  happiness  of  a 
young,  rich,  and  titled  heart  is  concerned !  And  Vera'i 
welfare — for  old  time's  sake — ^is  necessarily  dear  to  me.  I 
merely  ask  for  information." 

*<  There  is  such  a  thing  as  divorce,"  begins  Dora,  but  she 
has  the  grace  to  redden  »jider  her  rouge;  "the  marriage 
was  so  exceptional,  and — aad  considering  everything — the 


AT  DAWN  OP  DAY,  M| 

yean  of  your  absence — dtstrticn^  perhapi,  "fft  might  call 
it " 

"  It  will  be  the  better  word  certai ily,"  he  sa  "s  with  gravity, 
'<  for  a  divorce  court  Pardon  me — ii  thii  your  idea,  Mn. 
Fanshawe,  or  Vera's  ?  "  •   - 

*'Vera  has  grown  up  with  some  very  strange  ideas,'* 
returns  Dora,  with  acerbity ;  "  caught  from  her  Ursuline 
nuns,  I  suppose.  It  is  not  Vera's.  She  has  notions  of  duty, 
and  the  sanctity  of  the  marriage  tie,  and  all  that — romantic 
aiid  nonsensical !  It  was  "  mistake  to  shut  her  up  for  three 
years  in  a  convent;  I  Cw  m^  imagine  where  else  the  can 
have  acquired  them." 

"  It  is  indeed  singul- 
excellent  training,  too. 
to  hear  she  has  those 


,  aa  i  with  the  benefit  since  of  your 
>  n  the  whole,  though,  it  is  a  reliel 
Tin  tic  and  nonsensical  ideas.  Thej 
are  old-fashioned,  I  am  aware,  and  almost  obsolete  in  fash- 
ionable life ;  but  I  am  such  an  old-fashioned  fellow  myself, 
that  I  believe  I  prefer  them.  Still,  no  doubt  you  can  talk 
her  into  a  more  advanced  and  practical  frame  of  mind  before 
long." 

''  I  shall  certainly  do  my  best,"  says  Dora,  with  dignity. 
"  She  shall  not  sacrifice  her  life  for  a  sentiment.  As  the 
wife  of  Sir  Beltram  Talbot  she  will  be  a  perfectly  happy 
woman  ;  as  your  wife — what  will  she  be.  Colonel  Ffrench  ? 
A  poor  woman,  an  unloved  wife,  an  unloving  wife,  a  widow 
during  the  best  years  of  her  life,  in  the  abnormal  and  doubt- 
ful position  a  woman  always  holds  who  is  separated  from  her 
husband.  Yet  such  are  the  notions  she  has  imbibed  that  I 
am  positive  if  you  went  to  her  to-morrow  and  claimed  her  as 
your  wife  she  would  go  "vith  you.  Such  are  her  stringent 
ideas  of  duty  that  she  wuuld  go  with  you  loyally  though  it 
broke  her  heart.  But  will  you  demand  this  sacrifice,  Richard 
Ffi-ench  ?  " 

He  is  grave  enough  now ;  the  amused  gleam  has  left  hli 
eyes,  the  sarcastic  curl  his  lips. 


!tl 


?^ 


'     t 


% 


»)b 


AT  DAWN  OF  LAY. 


**  Grod  forbid  1 "  he  answers  ;  **  I  demand  no  sacnficcd 
Vera  was  my  little  friend  once — she  shall  never  break  het 
heart  by  act  of  mine.  If  she  can  get  her  freedom,  let  het 
g^t  it  If  she  can  marry  Sir  Beltram  Talbot,  let  her  marry 
him.     But — I  hope  she  will  not  1" 

"  You  hope  she  will  not ! " 

•*  From  the  bottom  of  my  heart.  I,  too,  Mrs.  Fanshawe, 
am  one  of  the  sentimentalists  who  believe  in  the  sanctity  of 
marriage.  I  made  your  sister  my  wife — if  I  gave  her  littld 
love,  I  have  given  her  at  least  perfect  and  unbroken  fidelity, 
in  thought  and  deed.  That  she  has  not  done  the  same  is  a 
fact  that,  though  it  may  grieve,  does  not  surprise  me,  and 
for  which  I  cannot  greatly  blame  her.  All  things  considered, 
it  is,  though  wrong,  natural.  If  she  is  capable  of  seeking 
a  divorce,  I  shall  not  lift  a  finger  to  prevent  it ;  if  she  is 
capable  of  marrying  Sir  Beltram  Talbot,  she  is  certainly  not 
fitted  to  be  wife  of  mine.  But  I  say  again,  I  hope  she  will 
not." 

"  If  you  mean  to  tell  h  ir  this  when  you  see  her,"  sayi 
Dora,  angrily  "we  may  as  well  end  the  matter  at  ouce. 
That  *  I  hope  she  will  not '  will  turn  the  scale.  She  wii 
not." 

** I  shall  not  try  to  influence  her,"  he  says,  coldly  ;  "no 
word  of  mine  shall  turn  the  scale.  But  on  -vhat  ground 
shall  you  apply  for  your  divorce  ?  " 

*'0n  the  ground  of  desertion — it  is  sufficient,  says  Dora, 
her  resolute  little  face  hardening ;  "  there  are  States  in 
whiph  it  is  amply  sufficient.  It  will  be  necessary  for  her  to 
return  to  America,  of  cou-  se,  and  if  you  do  not  defend  the 
•uit— 


M 


She  pauses ;  in  spite  of  her  hardihood  she  winces  undei 
die  chill  contempt  of  his  eyes. 

**  There  need  be  no  publicity  unless  y  m  make  it,  *  shfl 
begins  again,  rapidly ;  "no  one  in  England  need  ever  know, 
St  Beltram  need  not  know ' 


AT  DAWK  or  PAY. 


aoy 


del 


sh« 


She  orcdk^  off  again.  She  is  enraged  with  jienelf  foi  bei 
weakness  Tio^n  to  the  depths  of  her  vapid  loul  he  is  mak 
ing  tier  blu.th.     H  *  breaks  the  pause. 

'  **  And  Vera  will  marry  any  man  like  this  1  Well  i  the  ii 
changed  of  course,  but  what  a  change  it  is  1  She  used  to  be 
true  as  truth,  brave,  honest,  pure.  Mrs.  Fanshawe,  I  am 
going  to  ask  you  a  question,  and  I  want  you  tr  answer  it  — 
why  did  you  insist  on  my  marrying  your  sister  ?  " 

**  You  were  told  at  the  time — to  condone,  to  repair  hei 
imprudence  in  staying  with  you  that  night  at  Shaddeck 
Light.     Why  do  you  ask  again  ?  " 

"  Because  I  no  more  believe  that  than  you  do.  Just  at 
first,  assailed  by  you,  by  Mrs.  Charlton,  by  my  step-father,  I 
did  for  a  little  accept  the  idea.  But  a  few  days'  reflection 
convinced  me  of  its  absurdity,  I  thought  at  the  time  that  I 
knew  your  motive,  but  since  you  became  mistress  of  Chail- 
ton  I  confess  I  am  all  at  sea.  Possessing  the  Charlton  for< 
tune,  you  had  absolutely  nothing  to  gain  from  the  preposter- 
ous marriage  you  so  strenuously  insisted  on." 

**  Shall  I  tell  you,  then  ?  "  says  Dora,  and  flings  back  hei 
head.  A  sort  of  reckless,  defiant  audacity  flashes  out  of 
the  blue  eyes.  She  knows  it  is  absolutely  impossible  for 
him  to  think  worse  of  her  than  he  does,  and  her  very  dislike 
of  him  spurs  her  on  to  outrage  the  last  remnant  of  hir.  good 
opinion.  "  I  will.  Listen  I "  Slie  leans  forward,  a  fine 
smile  on  her  thin  lips.  "  When  I  first  came  to  Charlton,  U 
was  with  the  deliberate  purpose  of  marrying  you.  1  tell  you 
this,  for  your  vanity  will  not  be  elated ;  you  personally  I 
never  liked,  but  I  did  like  the  heir  of  Charlton,  1  very  soon 
saw  what  love  you  had  to  give — and  it  never  was  worth  much 
— was  given  to  Eleanor  Charlton.  But  she  refused  you — 
she  had  another  lover,  you  know,  whom  she  met  by  stealth 
in  the  grounds  after  night,  and  then  a  new  hope  dawned. 
You  and  Vera  were  fast  friends,  'iut  you  only  cared  for  hei 
o  amused  you,   and  the  hope  was  not  a 


I' 


tr   II 


Y 


I 


girl 


1   i 


j68 


4T  DAWN  OF  DAT, 


*  1 


Strong  one.  rhen  caine  that  night  at  Shaddeck,  and  tin 
way  wai  made  easy.  I  knew  you  had  Quixotic  notions  of 
honor  and  all  that,  and  simply  worked  on  them.  Mis. 
Charlton  abetted  me  through  sheer  malevolence,  and — yoo 
inarried  Vera.  My  motive  was  to  remain  at  Charlton  ;  as 
the  sister  of  its  mistress  I  could  do  so.  If  you  had  remained 
at  home,  instead  of  running  off  on  that  wild-goose  chase  to 
Central  Ame  rica,  a  sister  of  its  mistress  I  would  be  to  this 
day,  and  no  more.  Mr.  Charlton  would  never  have  married 
me  had  you  not  iorsaken  him,  but  you  did  forsake  him,  and 
— never  mind  why — he  married  me.  How  could  I  foretell 
you  would  go — how  could  X  forecast  he  would  make  me  his 
wife  and  heiress  ?  Could  I,  rest  assured  you  would  never 
have  been  troubled  with  all  that  talk  and  tears,  and  Vera 
would  still  be  free.  But  I  acted  for  the  best — I  never  was 
among  the  prophets.  As  it  is,  I  regret  my  mistake,  and 
will  do  all  I  can  to  set  it  right.  It  will  be  best  for  you,  as 
well  as  Vera,  to  get  your  freedom  back — some  day  I  pre- 
sume even  you  may  marry  again.  There  !  for  once  I  have 
told  the  truth,  the  whole  truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth." 

He  rises.  Of  the  profound  disgust  he  feels  his  face  tells 
nothing,  but  he  must  go,  or  stifle.  Is  it  the  heavy  pastilles 
lliat  perfume  the  room,  or  odor  of  ess.  bouquet  that  hangs 
about  her,^r  the  unwomanly  confession  she  has  made,  that 
suffocates  R!hi  ? 

"Are  you  going ?  Vou will  say  nothing  of  this  to  Ven 
should  you  meet.  She  does  not  wish  to  meet  you,  remem- 
ber that,  hut  if  you  ask  for  an  interview  she  will  grant 
it.  On  the  whole,  perhaps,  it  will  be  better  not  to  ask  foe 
it" 

He  replies  nothing,  but  turns  to  the  do  dr.  Dora  rises  in 
tarn,  and  follows 

"  You  will  not  inierfere,  then,  in  the  matter  sf  the  df 
vorce?"  anxiously. 

"I  have  said  so." 


\ 


4T  DAWN  OP  DAY. 


^ 


^  And  jTOu  will  make  no  cUtm  opoo  Her  ?  Inflaence  hm 
kk  DO  way  at  all  ?  ** 

"  In  no  way  at  all." 

'*  We  go  into  iudgiu^^i  to-morrow,"  Mri.  Fanihawe  COfll 
tinuei.  "  Perhaps,  after  all,  she  may  never  know  you  art 
here.  It  would  be  so  much  better.  Very  many  thaiiki  fot 
granting  me  this  interview,  and  your  generous  renunciation 
of  all  claims.  But  generosity  was  always  one  of  your  moi* 
striking  traits,  I  remember." 

"  Ciovyd-nioming,  Mrs.  Fanshawe." 

'*  Good-morning,  Colonel  Ffrench.  What  1  will  yon  not 
shake  hands  ?  Should  you  meet  Vera,  remember  all  thii  ii 
strictly  entre  n<ms.     Good-morning,  and  good-by." 

He  escapes  at  last,  and  makes  his  way  down -stairs  and 
out,  to  whei  e  a  clammy  morning  fog  wraps  the  world,  and  a 
sky  like  drab  paper  hangs  dismally  over  London.  It  is 
dawn,  a  dawn  of  mist  and  darkness  and  coming  rain,  but  it 
is  fresher,  purer,  clearer  than  the  sweet,  fetid  atmosphere  he 
has  been  breathing.  He  lights  a  cigar  to  clear  away  XBtt 
vapors,  and  help  him  to  see  daylight. 

"In  love  with  Sir  Beltram  Talbot,  and  married  to  mt 
Wooed  by  a  baronet,  and  wedded  to  a  penniless  soldier  zt 
fortune.  A  woman  without  womanly  truth,  oi  delicacy,  oi 
honor.  Ay  ie  mi  /  my  pjor  little  Vera,  it  ii  .lard  lines  tm 
rcn." 


h 


J7C 


A  SUMMER  AFTElttf009r. 


CHAPTER  V. 


k   SUMMER   AITERirOON. 


I  [IE  threatening  rain  is  but  a  threat  Wl.en  Mri^ 
Fanshawe  opens  her  eyes  on  this  mortal  lif.^*,  th% 
sun  is  slanting  in  long  golden  bars  through  the 
closed  Venetians.  It  is  high  noon,  Mrs.  Fanshawe's  Uimal 
time  for  rising.  It  was  four  this  morning  when  she  went  to 
oed ;  it  is  almost  always  four  when  she  goes  to  bed,  and  even 
at  that  hour,  and  even  with  the  aid  of  a  chloral  punch,  slum- 
ber does  not  always  come.  For  she  has  her  worries,  this 
poor  little  Dora ;  she  is  troubled  and  anxious  about  many 
things,  more  so  perhaps  than  in  tlie  old  days,  faint  as  a  dream 
now,  in  the  show-rooms  in  New  York.  There  is  her  husband 
— her  brows  contract  always  when  she  thinks  of  him,  and  the 
fine  lines  she  liates  to  see  deepen.  There  is  her  health — in 
the  garish  morning  light  you  may  see  that  the  fair,  blonde 
skin  is  growing  dull  and  sallow,  you  may  see  sharp  little 
cheek  bones,  and  dark-circled,  deep-sunken  blue  eyes.  Dora, 
who  half  a^ozen  years  ago  never  shrunk  from  the  brightest, 
most  searchmg  sunshine,  shrinks  from  it  now  with  absolute 
terror — it  is  always  truest  kindness  to  place  half  the  room  be- 
tween yourself  and  her  when  you  talk.  There  is  Vera  and 
her  future  which  she  has  marred,  but  not  irretrievably  marred 
it  may  be.  With  a  little  judicious  weaving  of  the  web,  a  little 
judicious  talk  with  her  sister,  a  few  insidious  hints  thrown  out, 
her  womanly  pride  aroused,  all  may  yet  be  well.  Latent  in 
Doia's  mind  is  the  unpleasant  conviction  that  Vera  the  wo- 
man cares  as  i7mth,  cares  more  for  Richard  Ffrench  than 
Vera  the  cliild.  From  first  to  last  he  has  been  her  hero,  and 
now  that  he  is  her  husband — and  exactlj  the   'ort  of  man  a 


■  ) 


A  SUMMER  AFTERNOON. 


3/1 


wo- 
than 
,  aud 
lan  a 


girl  of  Vera  s  stamp  is  most  certain  to  admire — why,  her  task 
will  be  no  child's  play.  In  all  these  years  it  has  been  the 
rarest  of  rare  things  for  Vera  to  speak  of  liim,  and  no  symp- 
tom could  be  more  dangerous — it  shows  he  has  never  been 
out  of  her  thoughts,  and  is  too  tender,  too  sacred  a  subject  to 
be  profaned  by  words.  Now  he  is  here,  and  they  will  meet^ 
ud  with  the  child's  sentimental  ideas  of  wifely  love  and  Jtity, 
too— and  Sir  Beltram's  place  down  there  in  the  green  heart 
of  rustic  England  is  more  like  one's  dream  of  paradise  than 
an  ever}'-day  baronet's  country  seat,  and  his  ma^>.i&cent 
rent-roll — so  old  a  family,  too,  every  one  knows  the  pedigree 
of  a  Talbot — and  his  passion  for  Vera  is  the  talk  of  the  town. 
All  London  considers  it  a  settled  thing.  And  to  think — ^to 
think  a  foolish  act  of  hers  should  stand  in  the  way  of  all  that 
It  is  true  she  did  it  for  the  best — how  was  she  to  foretell  that 
Mr.  Charlton  would  marry  her,  and  be  so  easily  influenced  in 
the  matter  of  the  will  ?  To-day  Richard  Ffrench  is  without 
fortune  or  home  to  o£fer  his  wife — a  name  he  has,  it  is  true ; 
but  what  is  in  a  name?  It  is  her  duty — Dora  sees  it  clearly, 
sitting  under  the  hands  of  her  maid — her  sisterly  duty  to  undo 
what  she  has  done.  She  warms  to  her  work  as  she  tliinks  of 
it,  its  very  difficulties  stimulate  her — a  little  skilful  manceuv* 
ring,  a  few  clever  little  fictions,  with  just  the  least  grain  of 
truth  for  groundwork  in  her  ear,  and  the  thing  is  done.  Vera 
is  proud — is  acutely,  is  morbidly  sensitive  about  her  marriage 
and  would  die  sooner  than  let  him  know  she  still  cared  for 
him.  It  is  the  only  thing  she  can  count  upon — that  pride  ; 
she  will  work  on  it,  and  he  has  promised  not  to  interfere.  She 
so  seldom  fails  in  anything  she  resolutely  sets  her  heart  on — 
she  will  not  fail  now.  There  will  be  that  quiet  divorce  in 
some  out-of-the-way  State,  no  scandal,  no  publicity.  Or 
peihaps  Ffrench  may  return  to  Cuua,  and  there  are  always 
the  chances  of  war — no  man  can  carry  a  charmed  life  forever 
It  would  be  even  better,  as  he  himself  said,  than  the  divorce. 
Dora  has  no  idea  of  being  blood-thirsty  at  all,  but  she  sit^ 


\    I 


272 


A  SWMMER  dFTEMK99H. 


and  calmly  counts  the  possibiities  of  Richu-u  Ffrench  beiii| 
shot  over  there — sighs  for  it  Tjideed  while  FeJician  does  her 
hair.  It  would  simplify  matters  so  1  And  then  there  would 
be  a  marriage  with  which  New  York  would  ring,  and  next  year, 
a  tall,  dark-eyed,  Spanish-looking  Lady  Talbot  would  be  pre* 
tented  at  court 


« 


A  note  for  madame,"  says  F^lician,  answering  a  tap  at 
the  door,  and  Dora's  dream  of  the  future  fades  out  suddenlji 
and  she  comes  back  with  a  start  to  the  present.  The  note  if 
in  her  husband's  hand  and  is  a  careless  line  to  say  he  is  not 
to  be  expected  Lo  do  escort  duty  that  afternoon.  He  is  going 
with  a  party  of  Americans— old  friends  of  his — nobody  his 
wife  would  care  about — to  Hampton  Court,  and  he  is  hen, 
D.  F. 

A  frown  knits  together  Mrs.  Fanshawe's  forehead.  It  is  a 
common  enough  thing — it  is  altogether  too  common  a  thing 
for  Mr.  Dane  Fanshawe  to  absent  himself  at  the  last  mo* 
nient  from  dancing  attendance  on  his  wife  and  sister-in-law. 
A  party  of  Americans  to  Hampton  Court !  She  crushes 
the  note  viciously  and  flings  it  from  her;  she  does  not 
believe  one  word  of  it.  Innocent  sight-seeing  is  not  much 
in  Dane  Fanshawe's  line — ^it  is  so  likely  he  will  spend  all 
this  long,  warm  afternoon  staring  at  the  dim  old  court 
beauties,  hanging  there  in  the  dreary  palace  rooms.  His 
wife  knows  betLy,  and  she  forgets  her  sister,  and  her  plottings, 
and  her  eyes  flash  fire.  Every  day  he  neglects  her  more  and 
more,  and  his  marked  attentions  in  other  quarters — does  she 
not  see  it  all  ?  Last  night  he  left  her  at  the  opera,  and  has 
not  since  returned.  Hampton  Court  indeed !  Dora  knows 
better,  and  a  passion  of  impotent,  jealous  wrath  sweeps 
through  her.  As  if  gambling  were  not  bad  enough,  but  that 
this  last  insult  must  be  offered !  Neglecting  the  vife  to  whom 
he  owes  everything,  and  devoting  himself  to  ihe  wives  ol 
other  men  !  A  fool  she  may  have  shown  herself  in  her  sis- 
ter's marriage,  but  no^  half  so  great  a  fool  as  in  hex  own. 


A  SUMMER  AFTERNOOy, 


m 


u 


"Freedom — men's  homage — happiness — what  did  I 
?n  him  to  resign  all  that  for  his  sake?"  she  thinks,  bitterly. 
*'  Truly,  while  1  am  about  the  divorce  business  it  might  be  ai 
well  to  seek  for  two.  It  will  come  to  it  some  day.  Hi* 
gambling  debts  I  will  not  pay,  his  insolent  neglect  I  will  not 
bear.     Let  him  look  to  it,  if  he  tries  me  tDo  far  ! " 

Her  maid  brings  her  breakfast — chocolate,  a  roll,  and 
a  little  bird.  Mrs.  Fanshawe  has  no  appetite  ;  that  is  why 
perhaps,  she  grows  so  fearfully  thin.  All  the  art  of  dress  and 
corset  maker  is  required  to  hide  it,  and  even  made  up  with 
the  best  skill  of  these  artists,  and  an  accomplished  Paris 
maid,  used  to  making  the  most  of  very  little,  it  is  a  small, 
fragile-looking  creature  she  sees  in  the  mirror.  She  grows 
worn  and  old — a  shudder  creeps  all  over  her  small  body  as 
she  realizes  it.  It  never  comes  home  to  her  so  sharply  as 
when  she  stands  beside  Vera,  so  fresh,  so  strong,  so  full  of  life, 
so  beautiful  in  her  young  vitality.  That  reminds  her — ^where 
is  Vera  ?  Her  good-morning  kiss  generally  awakes  Dora  from 
her  feverish  forenoon  slumbers,  but  it  is  now  one  and  she  has 
not  appeared.    She  glances  languidly  at  Fdlician  and  inquires. 

"  Mais  J  madame.  Mademoiselle  Vera  departed  more  than 
two  hours  ago  with  the  groom,  for  her  morning  canter  in  the 
park,  and  has  not  yet  returned." 

This  is  nothing  new,  and  Dora  thinks  no  more  about  it 
But  something  new  has  occurred  during  that  morning  canter 
along  the  road  after  all.  As  she  sweeps  along,  her  servant 
behind  her,  glancing  carelessly  at  the  faces  along  the  railing. 
Vera  suddenly  sees  one  that  sends  the  blood  with  a  cold, 
startled  rush  to  her  heart  It  is  the  face  of  a  tall,  sunburned, 
soldierly  man,  leaning  lightly  against  the  rail^  and  talking 
with  two  Or  three  others. 

Their  eyes  meet — in  his,  surprised  admiration,  but  no  rec- 
ogD-itioii  in  hers — but  those  brilliant  eyes  keep  their  owner*i 
secrets  well.  One  of  the  men  lifts  his  hat  as  she  flashes  by 
«nd  looks  after  her  with  a  smile. 


i  M 


ir 


^f ^ 


«74 


A  SUMMEk  ..^lERNOOfT. 


"The  hands Dniest  woman  in  London,"  he  says.     "In  ftll 
your  wanderings,  under  Oriental  a'^d  Occidental  suns,  Colo- 
nel  Ffrench,   you   must   have   seen   some  beautiful  faces 
Have  you  ever  seen  fairer  than  that  ?  ' 

"  She  is  a  pretty  woman,  and  she  rides  well,"  is  the  Cuban 
colonel's  careless  answer,  "  and  much  more  like  a  Spanish 
Dcfia  than  one  of  your  fair  countrywomen." 

**  She  is  not  my  countrywoman ;  she  is  yours,  I  fancy. 
Well,  and  how  did  you  manage  to  give  your  guerrillas  the  slip, 
colonel  ?     It  must  have  been  an  uncommonly  close  finish." 

He  resumes  his  interrupted  anecdote,  and  Vera  quits  the 
park,  and  returns  home.  He  does  not  know  her.  It  gives 
her  a  pang,  so  keen,  so  hot,  so  sharp,  that  she  is  indignant 
with  herself.  He  does  not  know  her,  her  very  face  is  blotted 
out  of  his  memory ;  while  she — meet  hira  hjw,  when,  or 
jvhere  she  might — she  knows  she  would  insta  )vly  recognize 
him.  She  has  changed,  it  is  true  ;  six  years  have  wonder- 
fully transformed  her,  and  yet,  if  he  cared  for  her,  if  he  ever 
had  cared  for  her,  would  not  some  subtle  intuidon  tell  him  it 
was  she  ?  He  has  not  altered  muc';  ;  the  Jeep  gray  eyes 
look  graver,  she  thinks,  than  of  old  j  he  is  browner,  more 
resolute,  and  more  so.  K'^-like  than  the  Caotain  Dick  of 
Shaddeck  Lij^^ht.  Olil  dayr,  old  thoughts,  old  memories, 
ciowd  bick  ^pon  her — she  lives  over  again  that  brief  bright 
summer  thattranaformed  her  whole  life.  That  wild  August 
night,  that  night  of  lightning  and  rain,  returns  to  her; 
that  night  she  can  never  forget,  that  she  would  blot  forever 
from  her  life  if  she  could,  is  before  her.  To  atone  for  her 
folly,  driven  to  it  by  Dora,  he  made  her  his  wife,  despising 
her  all  the  while,  and  now  he  is  here,  and  he  looks  in  her 
face  with  calm,  unconscious,  unrecognizing  eyes.  Her 
heart  has  not  ceased  its  quickened  beating  vhen  she  stands 
before  her  s'ster,  and  Mrs.  Fanshawe's  scarchi..g  eyes  read 
iC"rpthin^l[  ;:iore  than  usual  in  the  excited  gleam  of  Vera'i 


\ 


jt  aVMMER  AFTERNOON, 


%n 


"You  have  been  in  the  park,"  she  says.  "*  don' I  see 
that  it  has  benefited  you  much.  You  are  palt^  and  your 
eyes  look  strangely.     Has  anything  happened  ?  " 

"  Notlring  has  happened,"  Vera  answers,  a  little  tremor  in 
the  clear  voice.     "  It  is  time  to  go  and  dress  for  the  garden 
party,  I  suppose.     1  wish  we  were  not  due,  Dot — must  we 
leally  go  ?  " 

"  Since  when  has  it  become  a  grievance  to  go  to  garden 
parties,  my  dear,"  inquires  Dora.  "  If  my  memory  seivos, 
no  longer  ago  tlian  yesterday  you  were  looking  forward  with 
pleasure  to  an  afternoon  spent  in  Lady  Hamnierton's  lovely 
gardens.     And  Sir  BeltJt'^m  is  sure  to  be  there." 

Vera  turns  away,  the  color  rising  over  her  dark  face. 
'   "  Dora,"  she  says,  imperiously,  "  understand  me  I     Once 
for  all,  I  want  you  to  drop  the  subject  of  Sir  Celtram  Talbot 
Ifl  were  free,  it  would  still  be — but  1  Km  not  free — who 
should  remember  that  better  than  you  ?  ' 

It  is  the  first  time  in  all  these  years,  ihat  anyih  ag  like  a 
reproach  has  passed  Vera's  lips.  But  she  is  full  of  irritated 
pain,  longing,  impatience — she  hardly  knows  'vlia:^  and  the 
mention  of  the  baroncfs  name  is  as  "vme^iar  upon  nitre." 
Dora  shrugs  her  shoulders. 

"  The  more's  the  pity ;  it  was  a  horrible  l>i  under,  but  even 
the  best  of  us  will  make  .unders.  ^Vs  to  }'our  freedom, 
why,  freedom  is  a  thing  t  c  may  be  regained.  Vera,'  »he 
l?ans  forward,  "  do  you  know  who  is  here  ?  " 

There  is  a  pause.  Vera  is  standing,  her  back  turned,  look' 
ing  out  at  the  sun-lit  L   iHon  street. 

"  Do  you  know  who  is  here  ?  "  Mrs,  FansViawe  repeats. 

«  Yes,  Dot,  I  know." 

The  answer  is  very  low,  the  face  Dora  cannot  see.  Ther« 
is  another  momentary  pause.     Dora  is  rather  surprised. 

*'  Since  when  have  you  known  ?  " 

"  Since  yesterday  after*,  jon,  before  we  went  to  drive.  I 
have  seen  him  tsrire." 


!1         I 


■■I     ■     'l 


276 


A  SUMMER  AFTERNOON, 


f 


Once  more  a  pause.  "  So,"  Dora  thinks,  '^  me  murder  li 
out.  A  id  sh;has  seen  him  twice.  Now  I  wonder  if  I  an 
going  to  have  more  trouble  than  I  expected  with  this  busi* 
ness.     Vera  ?  " 

«'  Yes,  I  hear." 

"Turn  round  then;  I  hate  talking  to  peDple's  backi. 
Where  have  you  seen  Colonel  Ffrench  ?" 

"  Once — a  glimpse — yesterday  in  passing  his  room,  with 
out  knowing  it  was  he,  and  this  morning  in  Hyde  Park." 

"  Did  he  see  yu  t  " 

**Yes." 

"  Did  he  know  you  ?  ** 

"  No  1 "  says  Vera,  and  turns  abruptly  away  once  again. 

Dora  sits  silent.  Shall  she  speak  now  ?  She  glancet  at 
her  watch — after  two — and  they  have  to  dress.  No,  there  ia 
no  time. 

**  Vera,"  she  says,  and  rises  and  goes  over  to  her  sistet 
ard  clasps  her  hands  on  hot  shoulder,  **  tell  me  this — ^yoa 
never  ased  to  have  secrets  from  Dot — do  you  still  care  fof 
Richard  Ffrench  ?  " 

But  Vera  frees  herself,  turning  very  pale. 

"  Pardon  me,  Dot,"  she  answers,  coldly  and  proudly ; 
**  that  is  a  question  even  you  have  no  right  to  ask,  a  question 
I  certainly  shalj^not  answer.  What  is  done  is  done — I  have 
never  reproached  you  for  your  share  in  it,  and  I  never  mean 
to.  You  acted  for  the  best,  I  am  sure.  But  one  thing,  two 
things  I  must  exact — that  you  will  let  me  alone  about  Sir 
Beltram  Talbot,  whom  from  first  to  last  I  have  never  by  one 
word  or  look  encouraged,  and  that  you  will  from  this  hour 
diop  all  interference  between  Richard  Ffrench  and  me.  On 
this  I  insist,  and  you  will  pardon  me,  Dot,  if  /  seem  to  speak 
harshly.  Harsh  I  have  no  wish  to  be,  decisive  I  must  be; 
I  know  it  was  you  who  forced  him — against  his  ./ill — to 
marry  me,  a  poor  little  ignorant  half  grown  girl,  too  young 
and  faj  foo  much  of  a  child,  to  understand  either  your  m<» 


A  SUMMER  AFTEKSOOlt, 


m 


i 

)n 

re 

til 


tives  or  his.  Oh  !  Dot,  Dot,  why  did  you  do  it  ?  I  turn  hot 
with  shame  from  head  to  foot  when  I  think  of  it.  But  aU 
that  is  past ;  I  am  no  longer  too  young  or  too  ignorant  to 
judge  for  myself,  to  decide  for  myself,  and  1  say  to  you,  inter- 
fere no  more.  Bring  about  no  meeting  between  Colonel 
Ffrench  and  me,  leave  him  to  himself.  If  he  wishes  to  seek 
me,  if  he  has  anythmg  to  say  to  me,  I  am  to  be  found  ;  but 
I  tell  you  honestly,  Dot,  if  you  seek  him  out,  or  try  to  influ- 
ence him  in  any  way,  I  will  never,  to  the  last  day  of  my  life, 
forgive  you." 

She  turns  to  go  as  she  says  it.  Her  eyes  flash,  her  voice 
rings  ;  there  is  resolute  decision  in  every  word  she  speaks. 
On  the  threshold  she  pauses.  "  When  you  can  spare  F6li- 
cian,"  she  says,  in  a  different  tone,  "  send  her  to  me,  please  ; 
I  will  be  ready  in  about  a*\  hour." 

Then  she  goes.  Dora  shrugs  her  shoulders,  and  smilei 
sarcastically. 

"  High-flown  as  usual.  The  chance  encounter  this  morn- 
ing has  evidently  upset  her  imperial  highness,  or  is  it  pique 
that  he  did  not  recognize  her  ?  I  foresee  I  shall  have  no 
easy  matter  to  manage,  and  there  can  be  no  shadow  of  doubt 
but  that  she  is  as  fond  of  him  as  ever.  But  I  never  fail  in 
anything  I  set  my  heart  on,  and  I  have  quite  set  my  heart 
on  seeing  you  Lady  Talbot,  my  dear,  ridiculuus,  tragic  Vera, 
and  Lady  Talbot  you  yet  shall  be." 

Something  more  than  an  hour  after,  the  sisters  are  rolling 
along  behind  a  pair  of  black,  high-stepping,  silver-harnessed 
horses,  to  Hammerton  Park.  Mrs.  Dane  Fanshawe,  under 
her  white  gossamer  veil  and  rose  silk  parasol,  looks  about 
three-and-tweniy,  some  yards  off".  Miss  Martinez  in  white 
muslin,  all  delicate  needlework  and  lace,  the  sort  of  dress 
which  all  the  gentlemen  who  see  her  this  afternoon  will  ex- 
tol for  its  charming  simplicity,  and  which  none  *jut  a  young 
duchess  or  an  American  heiress,  could  aff^ord  to  wear,  lookf 
beautiful,  Iiigh-bred,  ar  1  ratlier  bored     All  dangerous  tcj^'ci 


3/8 


A  SUMMER  APTRRNOOir 


I 
It 


if 


fi! 


are  ignored,  it  is  not  well  to  begin  a  garden  party  on  a  July 
afternoon  by  losing  one's  temper,  and  Dora  foreseei  shi 
is  likely  to  lose  her  tempter  more  than  once  before  the  affait% 
Ffrench  is  adjusted  to  her  liking.  On  their  return  she  will 
open  the  siege,  and  meantime  here  they  are,  and  here  is  Sir 
Beltram,  with  all  a  lover's  eagerness  and  glad  delight  in  the 
greeting  he  gives  them.  Vera  bites  her  lip  as  she  meets 
that  glance,  and  reads  the  story  it  so  plainly  tells.  She  feels 
pained,  angered,  humiliated  by  her  false  position.  She 
seems  tc  herself  a  living  lie,  the  wife  of  a  man  whose  name 
she  does  not  bear,  who  cares  nothing  for  her,  whv.  \Ooks  a* 
her  with  cold,  unrecognizing  eyes.  Time,  that  can  help  most 
ills,  only  intensifies  this ;  every  day  she  feels  the  deception, 
the  falsity,  the  absolute  disgrace  of  her  position,  more  and 
more.  That  fatal  night  at  Shaddeck,  that  fatal  forced  mar 
riage.  For  a  moment  she  feels  as  if  it  were  impossible  to 
forgive  Dora  for  what  she  has  done — she  breaks  off  suddenly 
with  a  great  start.  A  man  has  just  passed  her,  Lady  Ham- 
merton  on  his  arm,  aud  she  recognizes  him  instantly — Dr. 
£mil  Englehart 

**  Do  you  know  him  ?  "  Sir  Beltran  asks  in  surprise  j  "  he 
is  one  of  the  Cuban  patriots.  They  seem  to  be  Lady  Ham- 
merton's  latest  hobby,  very  fine  fellows  too— dined  with  them 
last  night,  this'Dr.  Englehart,  Colonel  Ffrench — Ah  1  here  ii 
another.  General  Lopez.  By  the  by,  you  are  a  Cuban,  are 
you  not.  Miss  Martinez  ?  Curious  I  nevei  thought  of  it 
before." 

"  My  father  was  a  Cuban,"  Vera  answers,  and  looks  with 
A  smile  at  General  Lopez.  He  is  a  mahogany-colored  little 
officer,  the  centre  of  a  listening  group,  and  is  evidently  deep 
in  dramatic  narrative.  He  gesticulates  wildly  as  he  talks, 
fhoulders,  eyebrows,  hands,  all  in  motion  together. 

**  The  gallant  general  is  fighting  his  battles  over  again,' 
says  Sir  Beltran ;  "he  is  rabid  in  his  hatred  of  Spain  Aud 
Spaniards,  is  as  brave  as  a  small  lion,  and  has  had  no  e^aJ 


A  SUMMER  AFTERNOON, 


279 


of  hair-breadth  escapes.  So  have  they  all,  for  that  matter, 
esiiecially  Ffrench,  who  is  more  like  a  paladin  of  the  chivalric 
eia,  than  an  every-day  soldier.     Hear  the  general." 

**  The  Spanish  warfare  upon  the  Cubans  has,  throughout 
the  contest,  been  a  reproach  to  civilization  in  its  devilish 
brutality,*'  the  Cuban  general  is  excitedly  exclaiming ;  "  it 
consists,  on  the  part  of  the  Spaniards,  in  the  hendish  murdei 
ol  any  hapless  prisoners  they  may  take,  brutal,  cold-blooded, 
atiocious  murder.  Witness  the  massacre  of  the  Virginiui. 
Spam  will  never  conquer  Cuba  ;  the  very  stones  will  n?«  and 
fight  for  freedom,  if  we  lay  down  our  arms." 

"  iTes,  general,"  a  pensive  voice  says,  "all  that  is  a  matiex 
of  history,  but  it  is  a  digression  at  the  same  time.  How  did 
you  and  Colonel  PTrench  escape?  You  were  kneeling  in 
the  trench  a  moment  ago,  your  eyes  bandaged,  waiting  to  be 
ihot,  /ou  know." 

There  is  a  slight  laugh,  and  the  hery  little  general  comei 
tvack  to  his  story.  All  listen  intensely.  V«ra  listens  breath- 
lessly. It  is  a  story  of  dreadful  danger,  of  mortal  peril,  and 
Kichard  Ffrench  and  himself  are  the  heroes,  a  story  of  death 
and  daring,  of  cruel  suffering  and  invincible  "pluck."  And 
as  Vera  stands  and  hears,  the  old  passion  of  pity  and  tender- 
ness that  sent  lier  flying  to  Shaddeck  Light  that  memorablf 
evening  so  long  ago,  stirs  within  her  again.  An  unspeakable 
longing  to  meet  him,  to  speak  to  him,  to  see  recognition  in 
his  eyes,  thrills  her.  Is  he  here  this  afternoon  ?  It  seems 
likely  enough  since  Dr.  Englehart  and  General  Lopez  are. 
What  if  they  meet  ? 

She  breaks  off  and  falls  into  a  day-dream,  long,  sweet,  and 
lull  of  wonderful  possibilities.  Afar  off  a  band  is  playing, 
the  channing  music  floats  to  her,  softened  by  distance,  and 
blends  with  her  dreams.  Many  people  move  about  her,  but 
for  the  moment  she  is  quite  alone,  even  the  ubiquitous  Sii 
Beltran  Is  nowhere  to  be  seen.     Presently  voices  reach  hor, 


and  she  awakes,   and  mov<^«  c^,     ^ii^ 


>assing  oown  i 


Oo 


A  SUMMER  AFTERNOON, 


\A 


narrow  walk,  lined  with  briery  roses,  and  one  of  the  Img 
spiky  bianchc3  catches  her  dress.  She  tries  to  disentangle 
it,  but  in  one  hand  she  holds  her  parasol,  in  the  otncr  a 
bouquet,  and  the  thorny  branch  holds  her  fast  The  voicet 
draw  nearer,  men's  voices.  "  Permit  me,"  one  says,  and  wfth 
a  slight  smile  stoops  and  frees  her.  He  lifts  his  hat,  givei 
her  a  slight  glance,  and  passes  on. 

Is  there  a  fatality  in  these  things  ?  This  is  twice  to-day, 
and  this  time  they  are  so  near  that  they  toucn,  and  still  the 
same  indifferent  glance  of  a  total  stranger.  Dr.  Englehart  if 
with  him,  and  it  is  he  that  turns  and  looks  back,  a  puzzled 
expression  on  his  face. 

"Where  have  I  seen  eyes  like  those  before?"  he  says. 
•*  Who  is  that  young  lady,  Dick  ?  " 

"  Haven't  an  idea.  I  have  seen  her  before,  though — ^this 
morning  in  the  park.  A  compatriot  of  ours  I  believe,  and 
handsome  enough  for  a  duchess." 

"  Handsomer  than  any  duchess  I  have  seen  yet,  and — by 

Jove  !  I  have  it.    Ffrench,  is  it  possible  you  don't  see  it .'* 

He  stops  and  looks  back  again  in  sudden  excitement.  "  By 
Jove  I "  he  exclaims  and  laughs,  **  here  is  a  ronance  if  you 
like.  Dick,  does  that  lady  remind  you  of  no  one  you  have 
ever  seen  ?  " 

**  Of  no  one,"  calmly  responds  Richard  Ffrench.  "  Of 
nrhom  does  stie  remind  you  f  " 

**  Of  your  wife,  by  Jove  1  of  the  little  black-eyed  girl  you 
married  six  years  ago.  On  my  soul,  I  believe  it  is  the  same. 
They  are  in  London,  are  they  not  ?  " 

Richard  Ffrench  stops  and  looks  at  his  friend.  Then  he 
looks  back.  She  has  gone  on,  but  is  still  in  sight,  walking 
slowly.  His  dark  face  pales  under  its  bronze.  On  the  instant 
conviction  flashes  upon  him.  Changed,  changed  out  of  all 
knowledge,  grown  from  slim  girlhood  to  stately  womanhoodi 
but  the  eyes,  the  deep,  lustrous,  lovely  eyes  are  thv 
Can  it  indeed  be  Vera  ? 


A  SUMMER  AFTERNOON, 


%%l 


you 
un<, 

he 
[king 
>tant 
If  aU 
lood, 


He  turas  to  go  after  her,  has  gone  half  a  doien  pftcet» 
when  he  as  suddenly  stops.  For  at  the  other  end  of  the 
walk,  appear  Mrs.  Dane  Fanshawe  and  Sir  B^ltran  Talbot. 
All  that  Dora  has  said  to  him  flashes  back ;  she  has  fallen 
in  love  with  this  man,  she  seeks  a  divorce  to  free  her  from 
Aim,  that  she  may  marry  the  baronet.  See  her  he  must,  but 
not  now,  not  here. 

He  rejoin?  his  friend.  Englehart  looks  at  him  keenly. 
He  thinks  Dick  has  been  rather  a  fool  in  the  affair  of  hit 
marriage ;  but  as  his  marriage  has  never  interfered  with  hii 
freedom  or  made  him  the  less  a  bon  camaradey  he  has  hitb* 
«rto  overlooked  it 

«  You — you  are  sure  it  is  she  ?  "  he  asks,  hesitatingly. 

"  Quite  sure." 

*^  And  you  did  not  know  until  I  spoke  ?  " 

"I  did  not" 

"  Why  did  you  not  join  her  ?  Oh  1  I  see.  Dick  yom 
little  wife  has  grown  into  a  very  beautiful  woman." 

"  Very  beautiful."  i 

He  echoes  the  words  of  his  friend  automatically.  He 
feels  bewildered.  To  have  met  Vera  and  not  knowL  her  1 
Has  she  known  him?  Yes,  he  is  sure  of  it.  He  reca^is  the 
glance  she  gave  him  this  morning,  and  just  now  as  he  freed 
her  dress  and  turned  away.  She  was  very  pale,  too.  And 
the  loves  Sir  Beltran  Talbot  and  wishes  to  marn'  him. 
Last  night,  listening  to  perfumed,  painted  Dora  Fan-'liawc^ 
it  had  seemed  to  hun  he  did  not  care — much,  but  he  '&  con 
scious  of  a  sharp,  angry  contraction  of  the  heart  now.  Dear 
little  V  era  1  how  frankly,  fearlessly  fond  she  was  of  hii  ♦  once. 
He  recalls  her  as  she  stood  by  his  side  that  morning  ;  i  Shad- 
deck  Li(;ht,  and  defied  them  all  for  his  sake.  He  re(  ills  her 
as  they  parted  last,  crushed,  humiliated,  trembling  ^.th  pain 
and  shame.  And  this  is  h^tle  Vera,  this  tall,  proud-iookjn^ 
calm  eyed,  biilliant  woman,  who  knows  him  and  makes  no 
lign.     It  may  be  Vera,  but  not  the  Vera  he  his  known. 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-S) 


1.0 


I.I 


■  50  '" 

m 


us 

lU 

IS 

*^   i. 

WUU 


■  40 


12.2 
2.0 

1.8 


1.25   II U    |i.6 

« 6"     

► 

^ 

/. 


vl 


/ 


^J^ 


^w^ 


/A 


.-i^ 


'•^ 


7 


Hiotographic 

Sciences 
Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)  S72-4503 


.<^, 


■4^  ^ 


^ 


C\ 


\ 


v^Q 


;\ 


883 


A   SUMMER  NIGHT. 


M 


Colonel  Ffrench  is  very  distrait  and  sUcLa  all  the  rest  of 
that  day.  His  eyes  wander  everywhere,  but  iiey  do  not  see 
what  they  search  for.  For  a  lion,  he  roars  very  little,  to  the 
silent  indignation  of  I^ady  Hammerton  and  her  fair  friendi* 
ile  is  so  handsome,  so  like  a  hero  of  romance,  he  has  the 
true  air  noble^  they  are  so  generously  prepared  to  admire 
everything  he  says,  and  behold  !  he  says  nothing,  is  grave, 
silant,  preoccupied.  The  Fanshawe  party  have  gone,  he 
discovers  i)resently — Sir  Beltran  Talbot  with  them.  Mi&s 
Martinez  had  a  headache,  they  have  left  thus  early  on  her 
account.  Colonel  Ffrench  listens,  and  says  little,  but  he 
thinks  he  understands.  It  is  to  avoid  him,  lest  he  should 
seek  her  out,  and  make  a  scene,  and  the  baronet  perhaps 
discover  the  truth.  Well,  they  know  him  very  little  if  they 
fear  that.  In  all  these  years  her  image  has  been  with  him, 
but  always  the  image  of  a  wild-eyed,  black-haired  gipsy,  the 
Vera  who  rowed  with  him  in  the  Nixie,  who  sang  for  him  in 
the  lamp-light,  the  Vera  who  cooked  his  supper  at  Shaddeck 
Light.  He  smiles  as  he  tries  to  reconcile  that  Vera  and 
this — that  Vera  whom  he  stands  pledged  to  engage  as  his 
cook,  this  Vera,  exquisitely  dressed,  proud,  and  silent,  a  fair 
and  gracious  lady.  Little  Vera  !  little  Vera — his  wife,  and 
this  is  the  way  they  meet  at  last  1 


CHAPTER  VI. 


A  SUMMER    NIGHT. 


IS  it  chances  't  is  not  Miss  Martmez's  headache  that 
sends  the  Fanshawe  parly  home,  although  Misi 
Martinez's  sister  makes  that  the  pretext  fur  a  sud- 
lien  retreat.  Superb  in  her  fine  young  vitality,  Vera  never 
kas  headaches,  nor  aches  of  any  sort,  but  Dora  has  caught  • 


A  SUMMER  NiaaT. 


3<l 


glimpse  of  a  certain  sunburned  Cuban  colonel,  ind  sjenti 
danger  afar  off.  He  here,  of  all  people,  and  the  hero  of  the 
hour,  his  naiae  on  many  lips.  He  and  Vera  will  meet,  and 
that  meeting  is  the  very  last  thing  Dora  wishes  to  take 
place.  Some  time  or  other  it  is  inevitable,  but  she  will  ^tt 
ahead  of  fate  itself,  she  will  bring  Vera  to  a  proper  frame  of 
mini,  by  a  little  judicious,  sisterly  chat.  So  she  is  seized  all 
in  a  moment  with  sudden  and  serious  indisposition,  lays  hold 
of  Sir  Beltran,  and  on  his  arm  goes  in  search  of  her  sister. 
To  Dora's  eye  it  is  rather  a  striking  tableau  that  greets  her 
as  she  enters  the  rose  path.  Vera  coming  slowly  towards 
her,  a  sort  of  cold  pallor  on  the  dusky  warmth  of  her  face, 
and  following  her,  Richard  Ffrench.  Have  they  then 
spoken  ?  has  the  dreaded  meeting  taken  place  ?  Is  she  too 
late  ?  One  hurried  glance  tells  her  no.  He  stops  at  sight 
of  them  Vera  never  turns  around,  and  in  a  moment  she  is 
born^  out  of  danger,  but  Mrs.  Fansha\^  e  does  not  breathe 
freely  until  they  are  safely  in  the  carriage,  and  driving  rap- 
idly homeward. 

They  are  a  silent  trio,  even  Dora  can  be  silent  when  there 
is  nothing  to  be  gained  by  talking.  She  lies  back  among 
the  cushions,  and  under  the  rose  silk  parasol  watches  Vera 
askance.  But  there  is  not  much  to  be  read  in  that  still, 
thoughtful  face — in  those  large  serious  eyes — Vera  will  never 
wear  her  heart  on  her  sleeve  for  daws  to  pick  at.  The 
E>aronet  is  silent,  too  ;  be  is  beside  Miss  Martinez,  an.l  suffi- 
cient unto  the  hour  is  the  bliss  thereof. 

Mr.  Dane  Fanshawe,  reclining  negligently  among  th« 
cushions  of  a  divan  in  his  wife's  dressing-room,  lays  dcwn 
the  paper  he  is  reading,  and  looks  up  with  a  friendly  ani! 
concil'atory  smile  on  his  listless,  handsome  blonde  facoi. 

**  Back  so  soon,  my  angel  ?  You  must  have  left  Lady 
Hammerton's  uncommonly  early.  I  ^ri'St  you  found  it 
pleasant  ?  " 

And  I  trust ^^»  amused  yourself  well  at  Harioton  Coin t 


ih 


.'  t 


it 


H  ; 
ill 


9ft4 


A  SUMMER  NiGBT. 


Are  Jiere  any  nevr  beauties  on  the  walls  or^^>ff  ?  Are  thevt 
any  new  trt  ^s  in  Bushy  Park  ?  And  you  lunched  at  the 
'Mitre/  no  doubt,  with  your  unsophisticated  backwooda 
friends.  Did  Mrs.  Ellerton  make  one  of  the  party  ?  "  de« 
mands  Dora,  changing  suddenly  from  the  intensely  sarcaftk 
to  the  spitefully  jealous. 

Mr.  Fanshawe  pulls  his  locg  !!g:kt  mastache^  and  lifts  hk 
lair  eyebrows  wearily. 

'*  No,  my  angeL  Mrs.  KUerton  was  not  of  the  party,  I  ro> 
gret  to  say.  You  do  that  very  charming  actress  the  honor  ol 
being  jealous  of  her,  don't  you?  I  worderwhy?  I  have 
never  paid  her  any  very  pronounced  attention,  and  beyond 
dining  with  her  once  or  twice  at  the  *  Star  and  Garter  * ^" 

Mrs.  Fanshawe  turns  her  back  upon  him,  and  sweeps  out 
of  the  room.  Mr.  Fanshawe  watches  her  for  a  moment,  with 
amused,  sleepy,  half-closed  eyes.  Then  he  rises  on  his  elbow 
and  calls. 

"My  love." 

No  reply. 

"  My  dearest  Dora." 

Silence. 

"  My  angel." 

Dora  removes  her  bonnet,  gloves,  and  lace  drapery  witk 
compressed  li])s. 

"  Do  look  here  one  moment  please,"  &ays  Mr.  Fanshawe, 
plaintively,  "don't  be  angry.  I  really  have  been  b^nng 
myself  to  death,  at  Hampton  Comt,  with  the  people  I  men- 
tioned.  Met  them  by  chance,  and  couldn't  shake  them  ofl^ 
1  assure  you — awful  bore,  you  know.  On  my  word  I  should 
greatly  have  preferred  going  with  you  and  our  lovely  sistei 
to  the  garden  party,  because  you  see  1  discovered  that 
Ffrench  and  Lopez,  and  all  those  Cuban  fighting  feilowi 
were  to  be  there,  and  you  were  sure  to  meet.  And  the 
meetmg  could  nut  fail  to  be  more  amusing  to  a  dispassionate 
looker-on  in  Vienna,  like  myself  behind  the  scenes,  than  any 


A  SVMtatK  HtGMT. 


a8$ 


nmdevflle  eTer  played.  Come  petite  ange^  chase  awty  thoM 
clouds,  smile  once  more  upon  your  slave,  and  tell  me  all 
about  it.     D:d  the  bride  and  bridegroom  meet  ?  ' 

Dora  relents.  After  all,  she  is  very  fond  of  her  huslund. 
why  else  has  she  mairiecL  him  ?  and  she  is  dying  to  make  a 
confidant  of  some  one.  And  if  he  really  has  nvt  been  with 
tfiat  odious  actress 

"  I  see  you  have  brought  Sir  Reltrad  Talbot  home  to  din- 
ner," resumes  Mr,  Fanshawe  in  his  slow  trainante  voice. 
**He  dined  with  the  Cubans  here  last  evening — told  ma 
about  it — admires  Ffrench  beyond  everything.  Believe  me, 
my  angel,  when  I  say  I  laughed.  It  is  really  the  richest  joke 
of  tl^e  season." 

**  I  can  quite  believe  it,"  retorts  Mrs.  Fanshawe ;  "  the 
misfortunes  of  our  neighbors  are  always  the  richest  of  jokes, 
£  understand.  As  it  chances,  however,  even  your  keen 
sense  of  the  ridiculous  would  have  been  at  fault  here.  There 
has  been  nothing  to  laugh  at ;  so  you  see  you  have  lost  noth' 
ing  after  all  by  being  a  martyr  to  your  country,  and  escort- 
ing your  American  cousins  to  Hampton  Court." 

"They  did  not  meet  then  ?  " 

"  They  met,  yes,  that  is  to  say  she  has  seen  him  twice,  three 
times.     But  she  has  not  spoken  to  him.     /,  however,  have." 

"  Ah ! "  says  Mr.  Fanshawe  with  more  interest  than  he 
generally  shows  ;  "  when  ?  " 

"Last  night,  after  our  return.  The  dinner-party  jroil 
•peak  of  was  still  in  progress.     And  I  sent  for  him  here." 

"  Ah!"  Mr.  Fanshawe,  repeats,  "and  he  came  ?  " 

"  He  came  at  once,  and  we  had  a  long  and  very  serioui 
talk.  1  laid  the  case  before  him.  I  spoke  of  the  change  in 
Vera ;  and,  by  the  by,  Dane,  you  who  never  knew  her  six 
years  ago,  have  not  the  faintest  conceptiDn  how  greatly  she 
is  changed.  I  spoke  of  Sir  Bel  "gram  Talbot,  and  his  love  fof 
her,  of  the  dreadful  blunder  o^  the  maniage,  cf  Ver9'8  lava 
ibrSiiBeltian " 


I  I 


I   '\ 


t^ 


2$6 


A  SUMMER  SI  mm. 


Mr.  Fansha  ^e  lies  back  among  the  pillows,  and  la  j|^ 

"  You  told  hiiu  that !  What  a  plucky  Amazon  you  arc^ 
my  Dora,  and,  by  Jove  I  what  a  pleasant  thing  to  tell  a  mas 
— that  his  wife  is  in  love  with  another  fellow,  and  '  pleasi 
may  she  have  a  divorce  and  marry  him  ? '  By  Jove,  yoo 
know!"  Mr.  Dane  Fansinawe  laughs  in  his  lazy  pleasant 
way  again. 

*'  I  see  nothing  to  laugh  at,"  says  Dora,  austerely ;  **  nci* 
thcr  did  Colonel  Ffrench." 

**  I  should  think  not,  by  Jove  I "  parenthetically  from  th« 
gentleman  on  the  divan. 

''  We  discussed  the  matter  in  all  its  bearings,  and  I  will  do 
him  this  justice  :  no  one  could  have  been  more  amenable  to 
reason  than  he.  He  acknowledged  the  justice  of  uU  my 
remarks." 

<*  My  angel,"  says  Mr.  Fanshawe,  and  looks  at  his  wife 
with  amused  eyes,  *'  tell  me  this.  Do  you  mean  to  say 
Colonel  Ffrench — this  fire-eating  free-lance — sat  before  you 
while  you  told  him  his  wife  wanted  to  marry  another  man, 
and  acknowledged  the  justice  of  your  remarks  ?  My  hear- 
ing  is  not  usually  defective,  but  I  really  think  it  must  have 
deceived  me  just  now." 

''What  is  there  extraordinary  in  it  if  he  did?  It  was  an 
exception?  I  marriage,  it  is  an  exceptional  case  all  through. 
He  admitted  that  nothing  I  told  him  surprised  him  ;  he  said 
it  was  exactly  what  he  had  expected,  and  that  if  Vera  wanted 
a  divorce,  he  would  not  lift  a  finger  to  prevent  it." 

**Ahl"  remarks  Mr.  Fanshawe,  for  the  third  time,  "i/" 
Vera  wants  a  divorce.  But  if  I  am  any  judge  of  my  nearest 
and  dsarest,  it  is  not  Vera  who  wants  the  divorce,  but  Dora. 
I  am  rather  short  of  ready  money  at  present,  but  I  don*t 
mind  laying  you  a  sovereign  or  two  that  when  you  propost 
the  D.  C.  to  Ve  a,  she  refuses.  Come  !  I'll  giv*  you  five  to 
one  on  it." 

*'  Excuse  rac,   Mr.  Fanshawe,  I  neither  be.  nor  gamble ; 


A  sc;mmek  night. 


38; 


one  of  that  kind  is  enough  in  any  family.  It  if  7ery  potti- 
ble  she  may  refuse,  just  at  first — all  the  same,  it  shall  be  an 
accomplished  fact  by  this  time  next  year.  Now  as  I  see  yea 
sure  dressed,  suppose  we  drop  this  discussion,  and  you  join 
Sir  Beltran  in  the  drawing-room,"  says  Dora,  decisively. 

Mr.  Fanshawe  rises  negligently,  and  still  vastly  amused. 
To  him  the  whole  thing  is  a  most  capital  joke. 

"  I  only  wish  I  knew  this  Cuban  colonel,  I  would  most 
certainly  have  invited  him  to  join  our  select  little  family 
party  to-day.  He,  and  Vera,  and  the  baronet,  would  make 
a  most  interesting  and  unique  group.  I  wonder  if  he  knew 
her  when  they  met  ?  She  must  have  changed  a  good  deal 
in  six  years." 

Mr.  Fanshawe  saunters  away,  after  his  usual  indolent  fash- 
ion, to  the  drawing-room,  where  he  finds  Vera,  and  Vera  alone. 

"  Oh  1  sweetest,  my  sister,"  is  Mr.  Dane  Fanshawc'i 
greeting,  "  what  have  you  done  with  our  guest  ?  I  am 
under  orders  to  entertain  Sir  Beltran  Talbot,  and  was  told 
1  should  find  him  here." 

"  He  haj  been  called  away  for  a  moment,"  Vera  an- 
swers, coldly.  She  does  not  like  her  brother-in-law,  she 
never  has  Ukcd  him.  The  *'  languid  swell "  is  a  species  of 
biped  she  especially  detests,  and  a  languid  swell  Mr.  Fan* 
shawe  is,  or  nothing.  M  hy  Dora  ever  married  him  is  the 
chronic  wonder  of  her  life  ;  she  wonders  now  for  the  thou* 
sandth  time,  as  he  stands  smiling,  complacent,  self-satisfied, 
here  beside  her.  (,*ompare  him  with  other  men,  with  Sir 
Beltran  Talbot,  who  enters  on  the  instant,  with  Richard 
Ffirench,  but  no,  even  in  thought  there  can  be  no  compari- 
son there.  There  are  times  when  she  hates  him,  this  self- 
S'jfficient,  shallow,  empty-headed  coxcomb,  who  makes  Dot 
BO  miserably  unhappy  with  his  vices  and  follies  ;  who  drifts 
thrc'igh  life,  aimless,  puri)oselesSj  lazy,  caring  for  himself^ 
?;nd  his  own  comfort  and  pleasure,  And  for  nothing  tW  and*/ 


ani. 


s8S 


A  SUMMER  tflGBT. 


They  look  a  cozy  little  family  party  enough^  sitting  in  tiM 
pleasant  after-glow  of  the  sunset,  over  a  most  excellent  din 
ner,  two  pretty,  richly  dressed  women,  two  well-looking^ 
well-bred  men.  But  perhaps  of  the  quartet.  Mi.  Dane  Fan- 
■hawe,  with  his  subtle  sense  of  humor,  is  the  only  one  who 
really  enjoys  himself.  It  is  not  half  a  bad  joke  to  sit  here 
and  watch  the  admiration  in  poor  Sir  Beltran's  eyes,  Dora's 
smiling  graciousness  and  encouragement.  Vera  "  keeping 
herself  to  herself,"  hundreds  of  miles  away  in  spirit,  with 
Ffrench  no  doubt.  It  is  almost  better  in  the  drawing-room 
after  dinner,  with  Dora  at  the  piano,  interpreting  Chopis 
and  Strauss,  Sir  Beltran  beside  Colonel  Ffrench's  wife,  and  he^ 
the  amused  looker-on  and  listener,  lying  in  silent  enjoyment 
of  it  all  If  his  wife  brings  about  the  consummation  she  so 
devoutly  wishes,  in  the  face  of  all  that  chill,  delicate  frosti* 
ness,  why  then  his  wife  is  a  cleverer  little  person  than  he 
gives  her  credit  for.  Miss  Martinez  is  one  of  those  uplifted 
sort  of  people  who  are  a  law  unto  themselves  ;  she  is  very 
fond  of  her  sister  ;  but  where  her  heart  oi  her  conscience  is 
concerned  (and  she  is  the  sort  of  a  woman,  unfortunately 
rare,  to  possess  both),  there  will  be  a  hne  which  that  sister 
must  not  cross. 

Two  hours  later,  Veia  sits  in  her  room,  glad  it  is  over, 
glad  to  be  alone,  glad  to  be  away  from  Sir  Beltran  Talbof  s 
too  ardent  glances,  from  his  too  tender  words.  The  lace 
draperies  hanging  over  the  windows  flutter  in  the  damp 
^ht  wind,  for  a  fog  from  the  river  is  rising.  Two  it  three 
wax  tapers  light  the  room  with  a  soft  glow,  and  reveal  her 
fac?,  pale  and  more  wearied  than  Vera' s  bright  face  often 
looks.  But  a  tender  musing  half-smile  is  there  too,  and  her 
tliougiits  are  not  of  Sir  Beltran  Talbot.  He  does  not  know 
her — well,  that  is  not  strange ;  there  is  not  much  resem 
blance  between  the  girl  of  sixteen  and  the  woman  of  twenty, 
two.  But  he  will  find  her  out,  she  feels  siure  of  that ;  to* 
morrow,  at  the  latest,  he  will  come,  and  then— a  tap.    Dora, 


A  SUMMER  NIGHT, 


a39 


in  A  white  dressing-gown,  all  her  floss  silk  fair  hair  ulIoqc, 
and  hanging  over  her  shoulders,  enters  without  ceieuony. 

"  What !  "  she  says,  *'  not  begun  to  undress.  What  are 
you  mooning  about,  1  wonder,  as  you  sit  here,  with  that 
ridiculous  stiiile,  all  by  yourself?  You  used  never  have  a^y 
thoughts  or  secrets  from  me,  but  now — Vera,  I  wonder  if 
any  one  in  the  world  ever  changed  as  utterly  in  six  years  9J^ 
\ou?     I  don't  mean  alone  in  looks — in  everything." 

She  seats  herself  in  a  low  chair,  and  gazes  curiously  at 
her  sister. 

"  They  say  we  all  turn  into  somebody  else  every  seven 
rears,  don't  they  ?  You  certainly  have,  and  I  don't  like  that 
somebody  else  half  as  well  as  your  former  self.  What  a  wild, 
silly,  ignorant  child  you  were ;  what  a  dignified,  wise,  self- 
repressed  young  woman  you  are  I  I  wonder  what  has  done 
it — your  marriage  ?  " 

**  Perhaps,"  Vera  says,  slowly.  **  Yes,  my  marriage  and — 
what  followed.  The  revelation  of  how  and  why  Richard 
Ffrench  made  me  his  wife  came  so  quickly,  stunned  me  so 
•tterly — 1  think  I  have  never  felt  quite  the  same  since." 

Her  face  darkens  as  she  recalls  it.  Has  there  ever  been 
a  day  since  that  that  parting  scene  has  not  been  before  her, 
(hat  Mrs.  Charlton's  harsh  and  false  words  have  not  sounded 
in  her  ears  ? 

"  A  more  venomous  old  toad  never  lived,"  says  Dora, 
trenchantly ;  **  what  a  happy  release  it  must  have  been  for 
Eleanor  when  she  died.  By  the  by,  I  wonder  where  is  Elea- 
nor ?  And  that  reminds  me — do  you  know  what  1  found  ths 
other  day  hidden  among  some  things  of  Mr.  Fanshawe't  ? 
A  portrait  of  Eleanor  Charlton." 

Vera  looks  up  sileutly.  Nothing  that  Dora  can  find  in 
Mr.  Fanshawe's  possession  will  greatly  surprise  her,  but  this 
coiues  neai  it. 

"  Eleanor's  portrait  ?    Arc  you  sare  ?  " 

"Perfectly  sure — do  you  think  I  could  be  mistaken 9 
13 


I 


390 


A  iUMMEK  NIGHT. 


And  the.e  were  her  initials  '  K  C./  New  Crieaiis»  and  tht 
date  of  the  year — the  very  sutrmer  we  spent  together  «t 
Charlton.*' 

Vera  is  silent  Where  Dane  Fanshawe  is  concexned 
fi1f*nce  is  always  safest  and  best. 

**  I  taxed  him  with  it,  of  course,"  pursues  Dora,  in  an  irrh 
tated  tone,  "  and,  of  course,  also  got  a  few  plausible  lies  in 
return.  He  couldn't  for  the  life  of  him  remember  how  thv 
photograph  had  come  into  his  possession — ^he  had  never 
known  the  original     Bah  1  I  never  believe  a  word  he  telli 


me." 

Mrs.  Fanshawe  allows  no  sentiment  of  false  delicacy  to 
prevent  her  pouring  her  marital  grievances  into  her  sister'f 
reluctant  ears.     She  feels  she  must  tell  or  die. 

"  Where  is  Mr.  Fanshawe  ?  **  Vera  asks,  after  a  pause. 

"  Gone  out,"  his  wife  answers  with  a  short,  contemptuoui 
laugh.  '*  When  is  Mr.  Fanshawe  »^/gone  out?  I  dare  say 
his  man  will  help  him  up  to  bed  somewhere  in  the  small 
hours.     Vera,  what  a  fool  I  was  ever  to  marry  that  man  ?  " 

The  small,  worn  face  looks  woefully  pinched  and  pale 
haggard  and  gloomy  as  she  says  it.  It  is  a  very  aged  fair) 
that  sits  here  in  the  glow  of  the  wax  lights,  making  thii 
wifely  confession — a  very  old  and  faded  fairy.  Vera  looks 
at  her,  tender  pity  in  her  eyes. 

''  Yes,  Dot,"  she  says,  compassionately,  "  I  think  myself 
it  was  a — mistake.  Do  you  know  I  have  often  wondered 
why  you  married  him.  You  are  not  of  the  sort  to  fall  in  l<>ve 
easily,  and  if  you  were,  what  is  there  in  Mr.  Fanshawe  to  fall 
in  love  with  ?  " 

"Ah I  what?"  Dora  says,  bitterly.  "Do  you  thiiJi  I 
never  ask  myself  that  question  ?  He  has  neither  brains  ncr 
ability,  heart  or-  feeling  for  any  human  creature.  He  has  t 
handsome  face  and  wears  his  clothes  well,"  with  a  short, 
guiithless  laugh ;  *<  I  suppose  it  must  have  been  for  those  two 
excellont  reasons.     People  commit  suicide    nder  teraporarf 


A  SUMiUtR  JflOHT. 


n^ 


pale 

fair) 

thii 

looks 


ibenation  of  mind — do  you  sujvpoee  they  never  mtirji  amlci 
the  lame?" 

A  snixle  dawns  on  Vera's  face— a  sort  of  wondering,  •torn- 
fill  smile. 

*' '  And  Abdallah  grew  to  be  a  man/  "  she  quotes  from  the 
Turkish  legend,  " '  and  was  so  handsome  that  a  hundre4 
maidens  died  for  love  of  him.'  Well  1  it  is  done  I  know,  but 
I  never  shall  understand  it — why  any  woman  in  her  senses, 
and  past  sixteen  will  marry  a  man  for  his  face  alone.  At 
sixteen,"  says  Miss  Martinez,  retrospectively,  "we  are 
fools  enough  for  anything.  When  a  man  spoils  his  life 
for  the  sake  of  two  blue  eyes  and  a  pretty  complexion,  we 
take  it  as  a  matter  of  course — ^he  belongs  to  the  privileged 
sex,  to  whom  all  folly  is  possible  and  pardonable  ;  but  foi  a 
woman " 

"  And  a  woman  of  thirty — don't  forget  to  add  Ma/,"  puts  in 
Mrs.  Fanshawe,  with  intense  self-scorn.  "  I  don't  wondei 
you  wonder.  And  to  add  bathos  to  folly  T  am  besotted 
enough  to  be  fond  of  him  yet.  While  he — but  there  I  it  is 
just  one  of  the  things  that  won't  bear  talking  of,  and  I  did 
not  come  here  at  this  hour  of  night  to  discuss  my  madnest 
or  my  husband.     1  came.  Vera,  to  talk  of — yours." 

A  shadow  of  annoyance  passes  over  Vera*s  face.  Of  all 
subjects  this  one,  as  discussed  by  Dora,  is  most  distasteful  to 
hei. 

*^  I  wish  you  would  not,"  she  says,  her  dark  brows  con* 
tf acting.  *^  Believe  me.  Dot,  it  is  better  not.  I  thought  we 
nad  i»ud  our  final  say  on  that  subject  this  morning." 

**  You  did,  you  mean — I  said  nothing,  if  you  remember. 
It  is  my  turn  now.  Vera,  your  warnmg  came  too  late. 
Last  night,  after  we  returned  from  the  ball — after  you  were 
In  bed  and  asleep,  I  sent  for  Colonel  Ffrench  and  had  it 
out" 

*'  Dot  I  at  that  hour  1  three  in  the  morning  ! " 

*•  Improper,  was  it  ?  *  laughs  Dora,    "  You  arc  not  jeilousi 


A  SUMMMM  MIQMT. 


IM 


I  hope.     We  don*t  stand  In  the  nicer  ihadet  n/i  proprittf 

where  vital  interests  are  at  stake.  And  one's  bfOther-in-Ut 
and  step-son  combined  is  imvileged.  Yes,  I  sent  for  him-* 
they  were  having  a  dinner  party,  and  keeping  it  up  untO 
morning,  it  seems ;  and  he  came,  and,  as  I  isv,  we  nad  it 
out." 

**  Had  what  out  ?  "  Vera's  voice  is  thoroughly  iced,  and 
impatient  also.  **  Good  Heavens  I  "  she  thinks,  *'  will  Dot 
never  let  other  people's  business  alone  ?  " 

"The  subject  of  your  marriage,  my  dear — 1  don't  mind 
admitting  that  I  began  it.  Vera,  it  is  of  no  use  your  mount- 
ing to  the  tops  of  High  and  Mightydom  with  me.  It  is  I 
who  made  the  mistake — it  is  I  who  am  in  duty  bound  to  re- 
pair it.  Colonel  Ffrench  thinks  as  I  do,  that  it  was  a 
horrible  blunder,  and  the  sooner  it  cao  be  set  right  the 
better." 

Vera  turns  to  her,  a  slight  color  rising  and  deepening  in 
her  face,  a  slow  angry  light  kindling  in  her  eyes. 

'<  Yes,"  she  says,  steadily,  '*  a  horrible  blunder,  and  the 
•ooner  it  can  be  set  right  the  better  I  How  do  you  and  Col* 
onel  Ffrench  purpose  setting  it  right  ?  " 

*'  There  is  but  one  way — and  here  he  agrees  with  me,  too^ 
that  no  time  should  be  lost — a  divorce  I  " 

A  flash — swift,  dark,  herce — leaps  from  Vera's  eyes.  She 
lialf  rises. 

"Dot  I" 

"  A  divorce,"  goes  on  Dora,  steadily.  "  Sit  down  Vera. 
There  need  be  no  publicity,  he  says ;  you  can  ai>ply  for  it  in 
some  obscure  State  when  we  return  to  America ;  he  wil\  fA 
course,  interfere  in  no  way  witli  the  action  of  the  law-^e 
pledges  himself  to  this.  *  I  will  not  lif'  &  6nger  to  prevent 
It' — those  were  his  words.  'I  should  be  sorry  to  stand  in 
the  way  of  your  sister's  accession  to  fortune  and  rank'— 
those  are  his  words  too.  Of  course  he  has  heard  cJL  Sir  Bel 
tran " 


A  SUMBiAR  hlGHT. 


ail 


81  e  ^opt.  Vera  Km  ris«n  in  a  ludden  fUme  of  wrath  to 
her  feet. 

**  Dora  t  she  cries,  ^'  look  at  me  !  tell  me  Lie  truth  i 
Do  ycu  mean  to  say  Richard  Ffrench  said  that — urged  a  di- 
vorce— spoke  of  my  marrying  another  man  ?  " 

The  words  seem  to  choke  her — she  stops,  gasping. 

"1  mean  to  say  he  said  every  word  1  tell  you,"  Dora 
answers  with  dignity,  and  meeting  the  blazing  black  eyos  fuU 
"  Do  you  think  I  tell  lies  ?  Those  were  Richard  Ffrench*i 
exact  words ;  ask  him,  if  you  like.  He  looks  upon  his  mar* 
riage  as  the  bane  of  his  life,  he  looks  upon  a  divorce  as  the 
on«:  atonement  that  can  be  made.  Will  you  kindly  sit  down 
again,  or  do  you  intend  doing  a  little  high  tragedy  for  my 
exclusive  benefit  ?  " 

Vera  sits  down.  The  flush  fades  from  her  face,  and  leavet 
it  grayish  pale.     She  even  laughs. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Dot ;  I  won't  do  high  tragedy  any 
more.  Pray  go  on.  I  should  like  to  hear  a  few  more  of 
Colonel  Ffrench's  forcible  remarks." 

"  We  discussed  the  matter  fully, **  goes  on,  obediently. 
Mrs.  Fanshawe,  "  in  all  its  bearings.  You  cannot  blame 
him.  Vera,  that  he  is  most  anxious  to  regain  his  freedom. 
Any  man  would  in  his  place.  And — he  did  not  say  so  in 
express  worJs.  remember — but  I  infer  that  in  Cuba  there  if 
some  one — a  lady " 

"Yes.     Goon." 

*'Well — perhaps  I  had  better  not,  and  he  really  did  noC 
•ay  so  directly.    But  one  can  alwr.ys  tell — men  are  so  tr&ni- 
parent  in  these  things.     He  has  heard  of  Sir  Tehran's  atten 
tions,  and  he  spoke  very  handsomely — said  he  need  nerei 
know— of  the  divorce,  I  mean." 

**Yes" 

**  He  leaves  England  shortly,  and  will  soon  after  return  to 
Cuba.  There  is  every  possibility,  he  thinks,  of  his  remain 
lug  definitely  tbe^-e. 


Ml 


S94 


J  SUUMMit  NiOHT. 


'^  And  he  said  he  thought  it  best  under  the  clx  :um8tancei 
not  to  seek  an  interview  with  you.  It  could  inly  be  painfii4 
and  embarrassing  to  you  both.  That  is  why  to-day — I  am 
almost  sure — ho  feigned  not  to  know  you  when  you  met. 
For,  of  course,  he  knows  you — ^you  have  clianged,  but  not 
so  utterly  as  that." 

«*  Yes." 

Mrs.  Fanshawe  smiles. 

**  How  long  do  you  intend  to  go  on  saying  *  yes,'  like  aa 
automaton  ?  Turn  round,  Vera,  and  let  me  see  you.  Tell  ma 
you  agree  with  what  I  say  about  the  divorce.  Believe  nie, 
child,  it  is  the  only  thing  to  be  done,  for  you  and  for  him. 
A.nd  then  you  can  become  Lady " 

Vera  turns  round,  turns  so  suddenly,  so  imperiously,  that 
Dora  recoils. 

"  That  will  do,  Dot.  I  ha/e  not  much  to  say  ;  I  will  not 
be  tragic  or  high-flown  if  I  can  help  it.  Hear  me,  and  hear 
me  on  this  matter  for  the  last  time.  Neither  from  you  nor 
any  oiaer  human  being  will  I  tolerate  a  word  on  the  subject  of 
my  marriage  more.  I  will  never  apply  for  a  divorce — I  will 
never  marry  again.  If  Sir  Bcltran  Talbot  were  one  of  her 
Majesty's  sons,  and  I  were  free  by  law  to-morrow,  I  would 
not  marry  him.  Colonel  Ffrench  may  free  himself  or  not,  aa 
he  pleases,  and  as  he  can — for  me  there  shall  be  no  divorce,  no 
lovers,  r  o  marrying  I  As  1  am  to-night  I  will  go  to  my  grave. 
And  if  ever  you.  Dot,  see  him  aga-in  and  discuss  me  with  hun 
us  you  did  last  night,  as  surely  as  we  both  sit  here,  1  will  leave 
jrou  !     I  will  leave  you,  and  will  never  return  !  " 

Dora  sits  mv  te,  shrinking,  startled,  confounded. 

"  Let  us  not  quarrel,"  Vera  says,  after  a  moment,  in  an 
oniteady  voice,  "let  u£  finish  with  this  now,  and  forevei. 
It  is  a  miserable  affair  from  first  to  last.  Oh  I  a  misr  -able, 
miierable  afifair !  I  am  tired,  oiy  head  aches  I  tlrnk,  and—* 
and — good-night,  Dot!" 


'} 


••  WS  FEU,  OUT,  MY  IVJFE  AI/D  /." 


295 


imstanoof 
3e  painfoi 
ay — I  am 
you  met. 
I,  but  not 


*  like  aa 

Tell  me 

iieve  nie, 

I  for  him. 


Dora  rises,  dignified  but  disgusted,  and  without  deigning 
CO  notice  the  hand  her  sister  holds  out,  sails  in  silence  firom 
the  room.     The  door  bangs  behind  her,  and  Vei  .1  is  alone. 

But  not  the  same  Vera.  She  sits  where  Dora  has  left  her 
and  she  knows  her  fate.  She  believes  what  she  has  heard. 
She  sits  quite  motionless  a  long  time — her  hand  over  her 
eyes.  A  long  time— so  long  that  the  rain  is  patteiing 
sharply  against  the  glass,  and  the  raw  London  fog  floating 
dankly  through  the  open  windows  before  she  stirs.  But  she 
rises  at  last,  and  as  she  turns  to  the  light,  both  hand  and 
CM:e  are  wet  with  tears. 


!   I 


•isly,  that 

[  will  not 
and  hear 
you  nor 
ubject  of 
-I  will 
e  of  her 
I  would 
)r  not,  aa 
fc'orce,  no 
iiy  grave, 
with  him 
vill  leave 


It,  in  an 
forever, 
sf  "able, 
::,  and--* 


CHAPTER  VII. 

"WE   FELL  OUT,  MY   WIFE   AND   I." 

?IERE  !  Look  to  the  left,  Colonel  Ffrench,  it  is  the 
Countess  of  Davenant — she  is  bowing.  Do  you 
not  remember  meeting  her  ?  Ah  !  yonder  is  Mrs. 
Fanshawe ;  how  pretty  and — yes,  youthful  she  is — at  this 
distance.  Those  petite  blondes  make  up  so  admirably. 
That  is  Miss  Martinez  beside  her,  of  course,  and  also  of 
course  that  is  Sir  Beltran  Talbot  with  them.  You  do  not 
know  Miss  Martinez  ?  She  was  at  Lady  Hammerton's  gar- 
den paity  last  week.  She  is  an  American,  or  Cuban,  1 
really  do  not  know  which,  but  a  com|)atriot  of  yours,  mon 
colonel,  in  any  case,  and  one  of  the  most  charming  dibuiantu 
of  the  season.  They  tell  me  all  youi  American  women  of 
the  best  type  are  like  that,  pale,  spirituelle^  haughty.  She 
makes  one  of  our  party  to-day  at  Richmond  with  the  Dam« 
Fanshawe' s.  She  is  quite  the  fashion,  and  asked  everywhere. 
They  leave  almost  immediately,  to  morrow  or  next  day,  foi 
New  York.     No  doubt  Sir  Beltran  will  ^et  leave  of  abienc* 


996 


"  fS  FELL  OUT^  MY  WiFR  AND  /* 


and  follow.  They  say  she  is  an  heiress,  but  even  foi  .nc  ol 
your  rich  country  women  it  will  be  a  brilliant  match.  He  ii 
the  parii  of  the  season,  and — ah  1 " 

Mrs.  De  Vigne  pauses — she  looks,  first  at  the  Fanshawv 
party,  then  at  the  Cuban  colonel,  who  sits  beside  her.  Tb« 
icene  is  the  Park — the  hour  five  in  the  afternoon.  The 
crush  of  carriages  has  come  to  a  dead  lock.  Directly  oppo> 
site  her  pretty  Victoria,  is  a  barouche  ;  seated  therein  Mrs. 
Dane  Fanshawe,  Miss  Martinez,  and  beside  them,  curbing, 
wi'h  some  difficulty,  his  impatient  horse.  Sir  Beltran  Talbot 
Colonel  Ffrench's  quick  eyes  have  seen  them  even  before 
those  of  his  fair  companion,  and  his  dark  brows  bend,  and 
his  resolute  lips  compress  as  his  gaze  rests  on  Vera  and  her 
attendant  knight.  What  all  the  world  says  mus:  surely  be 
true,  and  seeing,  the  universe  over,  is  believing.  Sir  Bel- 
tran's  story  is  written  in  his  frank  English  face,  for  all  the 
Tody's  Mile  to  read,  if  it  listeth. 

For  Vera,  she  lies  back  listlessly  enough,  a  trifle  bored* 
but  very  handsome — so  handsome  that  a  thrill  of  wonder,  of 
recognition,  of  pleasure,  of  pain,  goes  through  the  heart  of 
the  man  who  watches  her.  His  wife  !  He  is  amazed  at 
himself  that,  in  spite  of  all  chang^-s,  he  has  not  recogiiized  hei 
from  the  first ;  for,  despite  all  its  beauty,  he  sees  now  it  it 
the  very  face  of  little  Vera,  and  the  deep,  large,  lustroui 
eyes — they  are  unchanged.  Sii  Beltian  is  talking— she  ii 
listening — answering — siniL'ng,  too,  but  in  an  absent  And  pre- 
occupied way,  and  with  r,  vioud  indifference  she  tikes  no 
pains  to  hide.  A  sharp  pang  of  angry  jealousy  knits  x<.ichard 
Ffrench's  brows.  She  is  his— his  wife — what  has  this  man, 
any  man  on  earth  to  do  with  her  but  himself?  His  resolu- 
tion is  taken  on  the  instant — there  shaJl  be  no  divorce — his 
wife  slie  is,  his  wife  she  shall  remain — no  man  s'lall  win  or 
wear  what  belongs  to  him.  She  may  have  forgotten,  but  she 
loved  him  once— child  or  woman,  it  matters  not,  she  loved 
him.     She  shall  love  him  again.     She  may  be  ambitious,  she 


•*WK  PELL  OUT,   Mr  WIFE  AND  Z" 


^ 


II 


.IMOl 

He  11 


^anihawt 
r.  Th« 
1.  Th« 
:ly  oppo- 
ein  Mrs. 
curbing, 
I  Talbot 
n  before 
;nd,  and 
and  her 
urely  be 
Sir  Bel- 
r  all  the 

p  bored* 

nder,  of 

eart  of 

azed  at 

ized  her 

ow  it  if 

iustroui 

-she  ii 

nd  pre- 

kes  no 

iichard 

is  man, 

lesolu- 

e — his 

win  or 

ut  she 

loved 

IS,  she 


aoay  be  worldly — she  may  be  like  her  bister,  and  yet  he  can- 
not believe  it.  That  is  a  noble,  a  true,  a  pure,  a  vomanly 
face,  if  he  is  any  judge  of  faces.  And  little  Vera  cannot 
have  changed  her  whole  nature.  How  beautiful  she  is — no* 
one  of  these  fair,  delicate  patricians  he  sees  about  her,  are 
half  or  quarter  so  lovely.     And  she  is  his  wife 

Sir  Beltran  Talbot  glances  at  him,  and  salutes  Mrs.  De 
Vigne.  Then  he  stoops  with  a  smile,  and  speaks  to  Vera. 
She  looks  up,  her  eyes  and  the  eyes  of  Richard  Ffreni:h 
meet.  He  knows  her  now-^-at  last ! — and  there  flashes  from 
hers  one  passionate  gleam  of  anger,  and  scorn,  and  con- 
tempt, that  even  Mrs.  De  Vigne  cannot  fail  to  see.  She 
turns  to  him  in  wonder. 

'*  She  knows  you,"  she  sajrs,  almost  involuntarily,  "  I 
thought " 

She  checks  herself  and  looks  away.  But  in  that  moment 
she  had  divined  with  a  woman's  quickness  in  tliese  things, 
that  the  dark,  dashing  soldier  of  fortune  by  her  side,  has  had 
his  romance,  and  that  the  end  is  not  yet.  And  Miss  Mar- 
tinez— is  this  the  secret  of  her  proud  indifference  to  all  men, 
of  her  coldness  to  Sir  Beltran.  Colonel  Ffrench  is  the  sort 
of  man  to  win  a  woman's  heart  and  keep  it.  They  have 
knovnfi  each  other  in  America — been  lovers,  perhaps.  And 
now  they  meet  as  strangers,  and  Miss  Martinez's  supevb 
black  eyes  blaze  as  they  look  on  him.  Mrs.  De  Vigne 
makes  up  her  mind  that  she  will  watch  them  this  afternoon, 
and  And  out  something  of  this  interesting  little  romance  if 
■he  dies  for  it.  They  were  to  have  staid — the  Dar.ie  Fan- 
ihawe's,  until  the  end  of  the  season.  Now  they  depart 
abruptly  this  week.  Ha  the  unexpected  advent  of  the 
Cuban  colonel  anything  to  do  with  this  rapid  exodus  ? 

Nothing  is  said — there  is  a  break  in  the  line,  and  the  car- 
riages pass.  But  in  Colonel  Ffrench' s  face  there  is  a  change 
which  his  fair  friend  is  quick  to  se^.  She  is  a  pretty  Tttle 
ironian,  a  married  flirt  of  the  most  pronounced  ordei ,  and 


ii 

'I'l 


i  I 


298 


"  WR  FELL  OUT^  MY  WiFR  AND  /.• 


his  handsome,  free  lance,  has  caught  her  'nflaminab  :  fanq^ 
from  the  first.  He  is  due  to-day  at  her  villa  near  Richmond. 
The  Dame  banshawe's  and  Sir  Beltran  Talbot  are  also  to 
be  guests.  It  is  the  last  invitation  the  Fanshawes  will 
accept,  as  Mrs,  De  Vigne  gayly  puts  it  to  her  companion — 
positively  the  last  appearance  of  Miss  Martinez.  No  doubt 
the  engagement  will  be  announced  almost  immediately.  It 
will  be  a  most  brilliant  match  for  Miss  Martinez,  fieautifu 
she  is — of  that  there  can  be  no  question,  but  mere  beauty 
counts  for  so  little,  and  Sir  Beltran,  with  his  rent  roll,  and 
his  pedigree,  might  have  won  the  highest  in  the  land.  Still 
he  is  absolutely  untrammeled,  and  his  passion  for  la  belli 
Americaine  is  a  thing  to  marvel  at,  in  these  degenerate 
days. 

Mrs.  De  Vigne's  gay  little  tongue  runs  merrily  all  the  way 
during  that  drive  to  Richmond.  Her  companion  says  very 
little — as  a  rule  he  says  little — but  he  is  more  silent  to-day 
than  she  has  ever  known  him.  A  total  revulsion  of  feeling 
has  taken  place  with  him  at  sight  of  his  wife  and  the  man 
beside  her.  Shall  Dora  Fanshawe,  ambitious,  scheming,  un- 
principled, rule  his  whole  life  ?  Once  she  found  him  plastic 
as  wax  in  her  hands  ;  shall  she  find  him  so  forever.  And 
yet,  was  it  altogether  her  tears,  Mrs.  Charlton's  bitter  words, 
his  step-father's  decree,  that  caused  his  marriage?  Even  in 
these  far-off  days  was  not  little  Vera  clear  to  him,  was  it  not 
to  save  her  possible  pain  ;  was  it  not  because  she  cared  foi 
him,  and  it  would  make  her  hai)py  ?  He  does  not  know,  he 
rannot  tell.  That  distant  time  is  as  a  dream — it  seems  to 
■iiir  just  now  as  if  he  must  have  loved  her  all  his  life.  She 
js  his  wife — his  wife  she  shall  remain.  What  was  it  Dora 
said  aDout  her  notions  of  wifely  dut)  and  honor?  he  had 
paid  but  little  heed  that  night.  What  if  Dora  is  at  the  bot- 
tom of  i^"  all  ?  if  that  talk  of  divorce,  and  unhappiness,  and 
love  for  Sir  Beltran  be  but  a  little  skilful  fiction  of  her  uim  } 
He  knows  Mrs.  Fanshawe  of  old,  Knows  that  most  of  her 


••  i§rS  FELL  our,  MY  WJFS  AND  /." 


391 


I  :  fanc| 
±mond. 
I  also  to 
ves  will 
anion — 

0  doubt 
tely.  It 
ieautifu 

1  beauty 
roll,  and 
d.    StiU 

la  belU 
generate 

the  way 

lys  veiy 

t  to-day 

■  feeling 

the  man 

ling,  un- 

1  plastic 

r.    And 

•  words, 

Even  in 

s  it  not 

ired  foi 

flow,  he 

leniF  to 

;.     She 

t  Dora 

he  had 

le  bot- 

ss.  and 

of  hex 


glib  chatter  is  to  be  taken  with  a  pinch  of  salt.  Wl  at  if  the 
old  girlish  fancy  be  not  quite  dead  des|ite  six  years  of  Mrs 
Fanshawe  ?  What  if  life  holds  other  possibililies  more 
blissful  even  than  fighKng  for  freedom  and  Cuba  ?  Ttrdaf 
they  will  meet.  He  will  seek  her  out,  and  put  his  fate  to 
the  touch,  to  win  or  lose  it  all.  They  go  so  soon,  and  when 
once  apart  who  knows  when  they  may  meet  again  ? 

"Welcome  to  Richmond,"  cries  the  gay  voice  of  Mrs.  De 
Vigne.  "  Come  back,  please.  Colonel  Ffrench,  from — 1 
wonder  where  you  have  been  for  the  past  fifteen  minutes, 
as  you  sat  there  staring  straight  before  you,  with  that  dread- 
fully inflexible  and  obstinate  look !  Wherever  you  we^c^  *c- 
tiun,  for  here  we  are  at  last." 

m  *  *  «  *  mm 

"  I  wonder,"  Dora  says,  in  a  low  voice,  that  Sir  Beltrat 
may  not  hear  ;  "  I  wonder.  Vera,  if  Colonel  Ffrench  is  really 
en  route  for  Richmond,  and  makes  one  of  the  guests? 
Mrs.  De  Vigne's  flirtation  is  certainly  more  pronounced  than 
even  Mrs.  De  Vigne's  flirtations  are  wont  to  be,  and  that  '\i 
saying  a  good  deal.     Shall  you  mind,  dear  ?  " 

"  If  Richard  Ffrench  is  there  ?  Not  in  the  least,"  says 
Vera,  coldly. 

"  He  saw  us,  but  I  did  not  see  him.  People  imagine  m 
Are  strangers,  and  a  recognition  here  in  the  Park  would  in- 
volve so  many  disagreeable  explanations.  If  he  is  introduced 
ti"^-  will  have  tact  and  good  taste  enough  to  see  and  under- 
stand. I  am  afraid  it  will  be  awkward  for  you.  Vera ;  and 
with  Sir  Beltran  present,  too.     If  we  only  need  not  go." 

"  Why  need  we  ?  "  Vera  asks,  in  the  same  frostv  voice. 

"  Well  we  have  acceptcu,  you  ace,  ana  we  cannot  plead 
sudden  indisposition,  now  that  she  has  seen  us,  and  besides, 
as  it  is  cur  very  last Still,  dear,  if  you  wish " 

"  I  have  no  wish  in  th ;  matter.  It  can  make  very  tittle 
difference  whether  Colonel  Ffrench  is  present  or  tot  I 
think,  indeed,  on  the  whole,  I  shoul  i  prefer  it" 


300 


"K'^  FELL  OVT,  MY  WIFE  AND  /."• 


i!fl 


"  Prefer  it !  "  Mrs.  Fanshawe  repeats,  startled. 

**  Prefer  it,"  Vera  iterates.  Her  lips  are  set,  h«r  eyei 
quite  flash,  there  is  a  look  of  invincible  resolution  on  he? 
face.  "There  are  just  two  or  three  things  I  should  like  to 
say  to  Colonel  Ffrench — to  disabuse  his  mind,  if  possible,  of 
one  or  two  little  mistakes  he  may  have  made  in  the  past. 
Fate  shall  settle  it.  If  we  meet,  I  shall  speak  to  him ;  if  we 
do  not,  why,  we  will  drift  asunder  in  silence.  Now  let  ui 
drop  the  subject.  As  1  told  you  before.  Colonel  Ffrencn  is 
a  topic  I  decline  henceforth  to  discuss." 

When  Vera's  face  takes  that  look,  when  Vera's  voice  takes 
that  tone,  Dora  knows  there  is  no  more  to  be  said.  She  is 
wise  in  her  generation — beyond  a  certain  point  it  is  al'f^Tt 
best  to  let  things  take  their  course.  She  has  done  her  work, 
and  done  it  well.  Vera  is  proud,  and  her  pride  has  had  its 
death-blow.  She  is  sensitively  womanly  and  delicate,  and 
that  delicate  womanliness  has  been  stung  to  the  quick. 
Dora  has  seen  that  flashing  passing  glance — those  two  may 
safely  meet,  and  in  all  probability  it  will  be  for  the  last  time. 

A  week  has  passed  since  that  rainy  July  night.  All  in  a 
moment  Mrs.  Fanshawe  makes  up  her  mind,  and  issues  hei 
imperial  ukase — they  are  to  go  home  at  once.  London  it 
not  habitable  after  July,  she  is  fagged  out,  she  is  homesick 
a  month's  perfect  repose  at  Charlton  is  imperatively  neces 
lary  to  her  health  and  happiness.  Vera  looks  at  her  witk 
real  gratitude  ;  she  will  be  glad,  unutterably  glad  to  get  away. 
She  is  so  tired  of  it  all,  there  is  so  much  sameness,  so  much 
monotony,  so  deadly  a  weariness  in  it  all.  Something  lies 
like  lead  on  her  heart ;  she  does  not  care  to  ask  what.  To 
be  back  at  Charlton,  under  the  fresh  greenness  of  the  trees, 
to  look  once  more  on  the  blue  brightness  of  the  sea,  to  be 
away  from  Sir  Beltran  Talbot,  to  begin  all  over  again,  to 
feel  once  more  alone — it  is  the  desire  of  her  heart." 

"Thank  you.  Dot,'*  she  says,  gratefully,  wearily.  "  Yei| 
let  us  (SO  :  l<9t  us  go  at  once." 


ill' 


••  IWS  FELL   OUT,   MY   WIFE  Al*D  L" 


y» 


icr  eyei 

\  on  he? 
d  like  to 
sible,  of 
he  past, 
ni;  if  we 
vr  let  uf 
frencn  is 

Ice  takei 

She  is 

is  aJ'fT^TS 

er  work, 

s  had  itf 

ite,  and 

e  quick. 

:wo  may 

1st  time. 

All  in  a 

sues  her 

>ndon  if 

nesick 

neces 

ler  witk 

t  away. 

[>  much 

ing  lies 

It.     To 

e  trees, 

to  be 

;ain,  to 

"Ye% 


So  it  is  settled.  Mr.  Dane  Fanshawe  shrugs  liis  shoulders 
smiles  under  his  blonde  beard,  glances  at  his  handsome  sif> 
ter-in-law,  and  assents.  "  As  the  queen  wills  '^  is  after  all 
the  law  of  the  household,  although  Mr.  Fanshawe  does 
pretty  nmch  as  he  pleases  in  the  main.  Mrs.  Ellerton  is  • 
pretty  woman  and  a  charming  actress,  but  pretty  women 
abound,  and  charming  actresses  are  everywhere,  and  he  has 
known  her  six  weeks,  and  Dora  is  growing  jealous,  poor  soul, 
and  Mr.  Fanshawe  struggles  with  a  yawn,  rises  languidly,  and 
departs  to  see  about  state-rooms.  He  is  not  at  the  Rich- 
mond villa  to-day ;  he  is  dining  with  Mrs.  FUerton  and  a 
select  few  not  on  his  wife's  visiting  list,  at  the  "  Star  and 
Garter." 

Sunset  lies  low,  translucent,  rose,  and  gold,  over  the 
world.  It  is  neither  classic  Tiber,  dreamy  Nile,  nor  flowing 
Amo— it  is  only  the  Thames  above  Richmond,  but  the  river 
glides  cool,  blue,  bright  between  its  green  wooded  banks — a 
strip  of  silver  ribbon  between  belts  of  emerald  green. 

Mrs.  De  Vigne's  place  is  a  dream  of  delight,  of  all  rare  and 
radiant  flowers,  of  ancestral  oaks,  elms,  and  copper  beeches, 
slanting  down  to  the  river-side,  and  Mrs.  De  Vigne  is  a  very 
queen  of  hostesses.  The  house  is  cool  and  breezy,  the  din 
ner  the  masterpiece  of  a  che/^  the  guests  select,  well  choseiik, 
and  not  too  many.  Removed  from  him  by  nearly  the  whole 
length  of  the  table,  and  on  the  same  side  sits  Vera,  so  Colo- 
nel Ffrench,  seated  near  his  hostess,  catches  but  oce  or  two 
fleeting  glimpses  of  her  during  the  ceremonial.  She  is 
dressed  in  pale,  gold-colored  silk,  with  black  laces,  and  she 
wears  diamonds.  He  has  never  seen  her  n  jewels  before, 
and  the  flashing  brilliants  and  rich-hued  silk  become  h'^i 
magnificently.  She  looks  rega/,  he  thinks — more  beautiful 
than  he  has  e/en  imagined  her  and  as  unapproachable  ab  a 
princess.  Sir  Beltran  is  not  quite  by  her  side,  but  he  is 
sufficiently  near  to  pay  her  much  more  attention  thaa  ht 
pa)  s  his  dinner. 


'! 


ki,i' 


302 


••  fTE  FEtL  OUT,  MY  WIFE  A^D  /.*• 


t 


!|li 


"The  Martinez  is  in  capital  form  thif  evening,"  (1iaw!a  1 
man  near  i.im  to  his  next  neighbor ;  *'  handsomest  t^oman, 
by  Jove,  in  England.  Pity  she  goes  so  soon.  Never  saw 
her  look  half  a  quarter  so  superb  before." 

"  It  is  a  way  of  Miss  Martinez's,"  is  the  ansvvvr,  "  to  look 
more  bewildering  each  time  than  the  last.  And  to-day,  ai 
vou  say,  she  is  dazzling.  Like  the  sun,  she  Hashes  out  most 
brilliantly  just  before  setting.  Lucky  fellow,  Talbot— con- 
found him  1  " 

"  Ah  1  you  may  say  so,"  the  first  speaker  respondl 
gloomily,  and  Richard  Ffrench  turns  with  angry  impatience 
ftway. 

How  dare  these  men  discuss  his  wife — link  her  name  with 
Talbot's.  He  feels  impelled  to  turn  savagely  upon  them, 
jind  annihilate  them  and  all  present  with  the  truth. 

But  he  does  not — he  chafes  with  irritated  impatience  and 
restrains  himself.  As  yet  no  presentation  hjis  taken  place — 
he  has  no  desire  for  a  formal  presentation  ;  he  will  seek  her 
out  in  the  drawing-room  and  speak  to  her,  if  he  can,  alone. 
And  if  the  Vera  of  old  is  not  dead  and  gone  forever,  the 
dear  little  Vera  of  Shaddeck  Light,  he  will  claim  his  wifa 
Deforc  the  world  ere  it  is  a  week  oldv;/. 

The  lailies,  at  Mrs.  De  Vignc's  telegraphic  bow,  rise  and 
depart,  and  he  watciies  in  tlieir  train  tliat  one  slender  figur'?, 
with  the  mien  and  grace  of  a  queen.  Sir  Beltran  watches 
also — he,  too,  is  silent,  preoccupied,  absent.  Ffrench  notei 
it  jealously.  The  interval  ends,  and  they  are  in  die  drawings. 
room,  where  fair  won  en  flutter  about  like  br:  ght-plumaged 
birds,  and  there  is  music,  and  the  subdued  tun.ult  of  gay 
voices  and  laughter.  Outside,  day  is  not  yet  done — the 
lovely  after-glow  still  lingers,  a  pearly  sickle  moon  is  cut 
•hai|)ly  in  the  sapphire  blue,  and  down  in  the  copfe  a  night 
ingale  is  singing.  A  faint  hay-scented  breeze  stirs  the  lace 
window  draperies — one  or  two  stars  come  out  m  tleii 
golden  tremulous  beauty  as  be  looks.     It  is  a  jfictuie  h« 


i.V„ 


**  WE  FELL  our,  MY  WIFE  Ai/D 


30| 


"  diaw:«  1 
St  ivoman, 
^ever  saw 

"  to  look 
to-day,  at 
;  out  meat 
bot— con- 

respondf 
npatience 

anie  with 
on  them, 

ence  and 
1  place- 
seek  her 
n,  alone, 
ever,  the 
his  wifd 

rise  and 

;r  figur'j, 

watches 

:h  notea 

drawing-. 

uniaged 

:  of  gay 

ne — the 

is  cut 

a  night 

he  lace 

n   tlei] 

tute  h« 


ices  to  the  last  day  of  his  life — photographed  sharply  as  a 
vision  on  his  brain. 

**  It  if  so  warm,"  says  some  one;  "come  out  an  J  let  at 
hear  the  nightingale." 

A  little  jewelled  hand  is  pushed  through  his  arm,  a  pair  of 
soft  eyes  look  up  at  him,  a  plaintive  voice  makes  the  senti- 
mental speech.  But  it  is  only  Mrs.  De  Vigne,  and  Mrs.  De 
Vigne  on  mischief  bent. 

"  Do  you  ever  hear  nightingales  in  Cuba  or  in  New  York  ? 
Look  at  that  moon.  Colonel  Ffrench,  and  wish — it  is  the 
new  moon.  What  was  it  you  wished  for  ?  Ah  1  Miss  Mar- 
tine*!" 

The  interjection  is  at  once  malicious  and  apposite,  for  at 
the  moment  Miss  Martinez  comes  in  view,  and  Sir  Beltran 
is  with  her.  They  stand  in  the  shadow  of  the  trees,  he  has 
both  her  hands  in  his,  his  face  is  flushed,  eager,  impassioned 
The  hour  has  come !  Vera's  they  cannot  see — it  is  in 
shadow  and  averted,  but  the  attitude,  the  look  of  Sir  Beltran 
tells  the  whole  story.  Mrs.  De  Vigne  glances  up  at  her 
companion  and  laughs. 

"  Only  now  !  "  she  says,  "  and  I  thought  it  was  all  settled 
ages  ago.  I  wanted  to  introduce  you  to  Miss  Martinez,  but 
J  suppose  it  would  never  do  to  interrupt  tfiai  tableau.  We 
iliall  have  to  go  and  listen  to  the  nightingale  after  all." 

He  stands  still,  his  face  dark,  his  brows  knit,  his  eyes 
glowhig.  He  neither  hears  no*  heeds.  Mrs.  De  Vigne 
l<X)ks  at  him  \vith  even  more  interest  than  she  has  looked 
yet. 

**  Colonel  Ffrench,'*  she  repeats,  incisively,  **  shall  we  go 
vnd  listen  to " 

She  pauses.  Miss  Martinez  has  suddenly  drawn  her 
hands  away,  and  turned  resolutely  from  her  lover  In  turn- 
ing from  him,  ^he  turns  to  them.  She  sees  them — him — 
stands,  and  lets  them  approach. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Martinez,"  says  ^he  bright  vo  ze.  of  little 


304 


"  H'E  FELL  OUT,  MY  WtPM  AlfD  HT 


ill: 


I ' 


Hill 


i' 


il; 


i    li 


illll 


Mrs.  De  A  igne,  "  let  me  make  two  of  my  most  especial  friendi 
acquainted — let  me  present  to  you  Colonel  Ffrench." 

Vera  looks  at  him — fully,  Jteadily.  Instinctively  he  hold! 
out  his  hand — she  does  not  se^m  to  see  it. 

**  I  have  met  Colonel  Ffiencb  before,"  she  says,  in  a  voiv^e 
as  steady  as  her  look.  All  that  Dora  has  told  her,  all  her 
outraged  woman's  pride,  all  the  vrords  of  that  fatal  letter  ol 
long  ago,  rise  and  burn  in  passionate  pride  within  her.  ^le 
would  rather  fall  dead  here  where  she  stands  than  let  him  lee 
his  presence  has  power  to  move  her. 

His  hand  drops  by  his  side — they  turn  as  by  one  impulse, 
and  move  on  together.  But  in  dead  silence,  until  Mrs.  De 
Vigne,  pulling  herself  up  with  an  effort,  breaks  out  with  a 
sort  of  gasp,  to  fill  up  the  awful  hiatus.  No  one  knows  what 
she  says — it  is  doubtful  if  she  does  herself.  Only  she  is  say- 
ing something — this  blank  silence  is  quite  too  horrid.  Where 
is  Sir  Beltran  Talbot  ?  She  glances  behind — he  has  disap« 
peared.  She  looks  at  Miss  Martinez — her  face  is  marble  in 
the  pale  shimmer  of  the  moon.  She  turns  to  the  Cuban  col- 
onel— his  has  set  itself  in  an  expression  of  invincible  resolve. 
Something  wrong  here,  something  seriously  wrong — she  is 
playing  gooseberry — she  will  get  away,  and  let  them  have  it 
out  by  themselves.  Some  guests  approach — a  word  of  apol 
ogy,  and  she  is  gone.    Then  he  turns  to  her. 

"  Vera ! " 

"  Colonel  Ffrench  I  " 

Her  eyes  flash  out  upon  him,  but  despite  the  fire  of  her 
eyes,  two  words  kept  in  a  refrigerator  for  a  year  could  not  be 
more  thoroughly  iced. 

"  You  are  about  to  leave  Englana  ?  " 

"The  day  after  to-morrow — ^yes." 

**  I  wish  to  see  you  before  you  go — I  must  tee  /ou  I  "  ne 
says,  in  a  tone  that  makes  a  second  flash  leap  from  the  South- 
em  eyes ;  **  I  must  see  you  alone.  Here  is  yoUi  sister.  Al 
what  hour  to-morrow  m&y  1  call  ?  " 


*« 


O,   WE  FELL  OUT,  J  KNOW  NOT  WVY*      J0| 


"  You  take  \  remarkably  authoritative  tone,  do  you  no^ 
Colonel  Ffrcn  zh  ?  However,  as  I  have  a  few  words  to  lay 
to  you  in  turn — if  you  call  at  four  to-morrow  you  will  find  mf 
at  home." 

She  turns  swiftly  to  Mrs.  Fanshawe,  bows  slightly  and  (at 
the  first  time,  and  so  leaves  him. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


••  O,  WK    FELL  OUT,    I   KNOW  NOT  WHY." 

QUIET  scene — a  pretty  picture.  A  handsomely 
appointed  parlor,  the  too  ardent  afternoon  sun 
shine  shut  out,  a  young  lady  sitting  alone.  She 
sits  in  a  low  chair,  the  absolute  repose  of  her  manner  telling 
of  intense  absorption — her  hands  clasped  in  her  lap,  her  eyes 
fixed  on  the  door.  She  wears  black — a  trailing  black  silk  up 
to  the  throat,  down  to  the  wrists,  that  falls  with  the  soh/rou 
frou  dear  to  the  feminine  heart,  whenever  she  moves,  unlit 
by  rose,  or  ribbon,  or  gem.  It  is  that  consummation,  so  im- 
possible to  attain  except  by  the  very  rich— elegant  simpli- 
city. 

She  has  been  waiting  here  for  ten  minutes.  There  is 
always  something  in  waiting,  in  expectation  that  makes  the 
heart  beat ;  Vera's  heart  is  going  like  a  trip-hammer,  her  eyes 
excitedly  gleam ;  she  is  bracing  herself  for  the  most  trying 
ordeal  of  her  life.  It  moves  her  to  the  very  depths  ot  her 
i>eing,  but  it  simply  must  be,  and  she  is  wise  enough  in  hex 
two-and-twenty  years  to  know  the  folly  of  fighting  Fate. 

Perhaps  of  all  the  trying  positions  in  which  a  woman  can 
be  placed — and  life  holds  many — there  can  never  be  any  so 
thoroughly  humiliating  and  crushing,  a?  the  knowledge  that 
she  has  been  forced  upon  the  acceptance  of  a  man  ¥  ^o  doc4 


306        ••  0,   fVE  FELL   OUT,  I  KSOW  MOT  WHY,"^ 


!  I; 


I  I    I 


4-%i^i^, 


not  want  her.  To  Vera  it  is  a  clear  case.  She  has  becQ 
guilty  of  a  foolish  fondness  for  a  man  who  gave  her  in  retuiDi 
the  sort  of  anuiscd  regard  he  might  give  tlie  gambols  of  a  ku* 
ten,  but  who,  forced  by  his  friends  and  his  own  overdone  sense 
of  chivalry,  has  married  her. 

And  now  he  is  here  ;  he  comes  today  to  plead  for  his  legal 
fiecdom  that  he  may  marry  that  "some  one"  in  Cuba,  and 
she  must  stand  and  listen  to  the  cruelest,  most  humbling  words 
that  ♦'ver  were  spoken  by  man  to  woman  I 

A  lai)— Filician  gently  opens  the  door. 

"  Colonel  Ffrench,  mademoiselle,"  she  announces,  and 
goes. 

Vera  starts  up.  He  stands  before  her,  and  something  she 
might  have  thought  wistful  pleading,  if  seen  in  other  eyes, 
looks  at  her  out  of  his.     He  holds  out  his  hand. 

"  yiera  /  "  he  says,  in  a  tone  that  matches  the  look. 

She  makes  a  rapid  gesture  and  passes  him,  and  once  more 
his  hand  falls.  Sh-  is  excited  as  sne  has  never  been  excited 
before  in  her  life.  She  trembles  through  all  her  frame,  so 
that  she  has  to  lay  hold  of  the  low  marble  mantel  for  support. 
Her  voice,  when  she  speaks,  is  not  like  the  voice  of  Vera. 

'♦  Oh,  wait  I  "  she  says,  in  a  breathless  way,  "give  me  time. 
I  know  what  you  have  come  to  say,  but  wiit — wait  one  mo- 
ment. Listen  to  me  first.  It  has  all  been  a  mistake — from 
first  to  fast,  a  mistake  that  can  never  be  set  right,  but  I  am 
not  so  nmch  to  blame — so  much — to " 

She  breaks,  words  will  not  come,  the  woids  she  wishes  to 
say.  She  tries  to  catch  her  breath  to  stop  the  rapid  beating 
of  her  heart. 

'*  ( 'h  I  "  she  cries  out,  "  what  m\ist  you  have  thought  of  iwc 
in  vhai  past  time — what  must  you  think  of  me  to-day  1  How 
bad  how  bold — Colonel  Ffrench  !  "  She  turns  to  him,  pas. 
sionately,  and  holds  forth  both  hands,  "for  Heaven's  sake 
try  to  believe  me  if  you  can  !  All  Mrs.  Charlton  said  to  yon 
thai  ■  *y  was  t^ise — falac  every  word.     It  seems  hard  to  cred 


I 


r.» 


•»0,  WB  PELL  OUT,  J  KNOW NO^  WHY.**       yyf 


has  been 
ii<  retunii 
Is  of  a  leu* 
lone  sense 

r  his  legal 
Juba,  and 
ling  words 


ncest  and 

ething  she 
ther  eyes, 

ok. 

>nce  more 
in  excited 
frame,  so 
r  support, 
f  Vera. 

me  time. 

one  mo- 

Ike — from 

but  I  am 

wishes  to 
beating 

fht  of  me 

!     How 

lim,  pas* 

In's  sake 


Id  to 


yon 


to  cred 


it,  I  know,  but,  indeed,  indeed,  indeed,  when  I  went  to  yoQ 
that  evening,  whei.  I  staid  with  you  that  night,  I  had  no 
thought,  no  wish,  that  you — would — m2.ke  me  your — wife  1  * 

Tile  words  that  nearly  stiHe  her  are  oul.  She  turns  from 
hini  again,  and  bows  hei  face  on  the  handa  that  clasp  the 
tnarblc.  In  all  her  life  it  seems  to  her  she  can  never  suffer 
again  tiie  pain,  the  shame  she  suffers  in  this  hour. 

For  Colonel  Ffrench  he  stands  and  looks  at  her.  The 
whole  scene,  her  excited  manner,  her  rapid  words,  seer, 
literally  to  have  taken  away  his  breath.  Is  this  the  dignified, 
haughty,  self-possessed  princess  of  last  night — this  passion- 
ately-speaking woman,  shaken  like  a  reed  by  the  storm  of 
feeling  within  her  ?  He  simply  stands  mute  ;  he  has  ex- 
i)ected  somethmg  so  entirely  different,  and  looks  and  listen! 
like  a  man  in  a  dream. 

*'  You  defended  me  from  my  enemy,  I  know,"  goes  on 
Vera,  still  in  that  agitated  >\iice  ;  **  every  word  of  that  inter 
riew  is  stamped  on  my  remembrance.  It  was  like  you — you 
frould  have  done  it  for  any  one  maligned.  She  wronged  me 
—try  and  believe  me  when  I  say  she  wronged  me  cruelly.  I 
went  in  all  innocence  that  night,  try  and  believe  that  too, 
with  no  thought  in  my  child's  heart  but  that  you  were  suffer- 
ing and  alone,  and  that — I  liked  yuu  so  much.  And  from 
that  hour,  until  I  sat  and  listened  to  Mrs.  Charlton,  nc 
thought  of  the  actual  tmth  ever  ctQ6sed  my  mind.  Doia 
told  me  nothing — nothing  that  was  true.  Neither  did  yoiL 
Oh  !  Richard  Ffrench,  neither  did  you  1  She  told  me  yotf 
wished  to  marry  me  before  you  went  away,  that  you-  .ww 
shrill  I  say  it  ? — cared  for  me  as  men  care  for  the  girls  they 
marry.  And  I  believed  her,  and  was  glad ;  how  am  I  to 
deny  it  ?  and  I  wrote  you  that  poor,  foolish,  fatal  letter,  and 
you  came,  ani  in  spite  of  your  coldness,  your  gloom,  I  nevef 
read  the  truth.  Until  Mrs.  Charlton  spoke  I  knew  nothirg. 
and  then — Heaven  help  me — I  knew  all !  ' 

She  catches  her  breath  with  a  dry,  husky  sob,  and  ftt  f>i  ta 


I     11 


: 


ilil 


I  1 


308        "  O,   WE  FELL  OUT^  I  KNOW  tfOT  WHY* 

K  moment.  Her  hands  are  locked  in  their  grasp  to  a  ten 
sion  of  pain.  It  seems  to  her  that  if  she  lets  go  her  hold  sh4 
will  turn  dizzy  and  fall. 

"  You  rent  away,"  she  hurries  on,  **  and  I  was  alone,  and 
had  time  to  think.  Your  letter  came,  but  I  would  not  read 
it — then.  I  laid  it  away,  and  waited  until  the  muddle  would 
gro'V  clearer.  Time  might  have  soothed  and  softened  even 
what  I  feit  then,  if  something  -Ise  had  not  come.  That 
something  else  was  a  letter  of  ycurs.  Colonel  Ffrench,  do 
you  recall  a  letter  you  wrote  to  Mr.  Charlton  just  after  my 
acceptance  of  you  ?  In  that  letter  you  spoke  your  mind — 
how,  overpowered  by  the  tears  and  reproaches  of  Misi 
Lightwood,  to  save  my  honor,  to  shield  me  from  the  conse- 
quences of  my  own  act,  you  would  marry  me,  although  you 
knew  that  marriage  to  be  utter  folly  and  insanity — although 
I  would  be  in  incubus  to  you  for  life.  I  remember  it  all 
— so  well !  so  well !  I  found  it  among  some  papers  given 
me  by  Dora  to  read.  Mrs.  Charlton's  surmise  might  be  false 
or  true — that  mattered  little  ;  but  I  held  in  my  hand  that 
day  your  own  thoughts,  your  own  words,  and  knew  at  last, 
for  the  first  time,  the  full  extent  of  the  dreadful  mistake  that 
had  been  made.  If  you  had  but  told  me — if  Dora  had  but 
toid  Lie  I  You  weie  my  friend,  she  my  sister — but  you 
would  nut.  I  was  a  child,  I  know,  but  I  would  have  under- 
stood, and  the  sacrifice  might  have  been  spared.  Colonel 
Ffrench,  your  life  may  have  been  spoiled  by  a  forced  mar- 
iia^je,  but  tell  me,  if  you  can,  what  do  you  think  cf  minr;  ?  " 

lie  cannot  speak  if  he  would  bir*-  riie  ^-^^^  him  no  time. 
Carried  away  by  the  excitement  c  al  she  has  hidden  so  long, 
she  is  unconscious  that  he  has  spoken  but  one  word — her 
name — since  he  has  entered ;  that  he  still  stands  mute  and 
motionless,  borne  down  by  the  whirlwind  of  her  passion  ol 
grief  and  regret.  That  rainy  twilight  is  before  her — she  if 
back  at  Charlton,  with  the  wind  tossing  the  trees,  the  ihinf 
of  the  rain  on  th;  lamp -lit  flags.     Dora  in  her  trailing  crajjM 


\  ■ 


•i 


O,  IVE  FELL  OUT^  I  rSOW  SOT  WHY,"*      JOQ 


and  sables,  and  small,  pale  face,  and  she  herself  a  wan,  for 
lorn  little  f.gure  enough,  in  the  recess  of  the  window,  read 
ing  that  crudest  letter,  it  seems  to  hev,  "hi  t  ever  man  wrote. 

"Well,"  she  says,   ** all   that  is  past.     What  is  done  it 
done ;  your  wife  you  made  me,  your  wife  I  £jn.     But,  Rich 
ard  Ffrench,  as  I  stand  here,  I  would  give  my  heart's  blood 
to  blot  out  that  day — a  hundred  lives,  if  I  had  them,  to  be 
free  once  more  !  " 

He  makes  no  sign  ;  he  st^U  stands  hat  in  hand,  and  listeni 
and  looks. 

"  I  liked  you  in  the  past,  in  those  Charlton  days.  Oh  1  I 
know  it  well ;  as  a  child  may  like,  with  no  thought  of  love 
or  marriage,  so  hear  me  Heaven,  any  more  than  if  I  had  been 
six  instead  of  sixteen.  Dora  spoke — you  were  silent,  and  I 
consented  to  marry  you.  You  thought  I  was  in  love  with 
you,  and  you  pitied  me ;  I  had  endangered  my  reputation 
for  your  sake,  and  you  made  me  your  wife.  But,  Colono 
Ffrench,  listen  here  !  I  was  not  in  love  with  you,  eithei 
•hen,  or  ever,  or  now — there  have  been  times  when  it  has 
been  in  my  heart  to  hate  you  since,  as  it  is  in  my  heart 
to  hate  you  as  you  stand  before  me  now.  You  did  me  a 
cruel  wrong  when  you  made  me  your  wife,  and,  as  I  say,  I 
would  lay  down  my  life  gladly,  willingly,  this  hour  to  b« 
free  1 " 

She  has  never  intended  to  say  this,  to  go  so  far,  but  the 
force  of  excitement  that  shakes  her,  canies  her  away.  Sh« 
sees  his  face  turn  slowly  from  its  clear,  sunburned  brown  to 
a  dead,  swarthy  white,  which  makes  her  draw  back,  even 
while  she  speaks. 

**  Understand  me,"  she  says,  in  a  steadier  voic«?,  **  I  knew 
fou  meant  well,  honorably,  chivalrously,  but,  as  I  tell  you, 
it  was  a  mistake,  a  cruel,  dreadful,  irreparable  mistake.  No, 
not  irreparable — my  sister  tells  me  otherwise,  and  if  the  law 
will  give  you  back  freedom,  take  it !  then  indeel  I  majr 
learn  to  forgive  and  forget.    As  I  said  to  you  whec   I  cavf 


tm 


2  to       ♦'  O,   H'£  FELL  OUT,   I  KNOW  NOT  WHY,^ 


in,  I  think  I  knew  why  you  have  asked  for  this  intervieir-* 
what  it  is  you  wish  to  say,  but  do  not  say  it — I  would  rathei 
not  hear.  Dora  has  told  me  all  that  is  ecessary  for  me  M 
know.  For  the  rest,  I  wish  you  well  and  happy,  but  afta 
to-day  I  see  no  reason  why  we  should  ever  meet  again.  Wt 
have  managed  to  spoil  each  other's  lives — if  you  can  stt  '/cui 
own  life  right,  no  one  will  rejoice  more  than  I.  But  what 
rver  the  future  may  bring  you,  Colonel  Ffrench,  let  it  bring 
you  other  tli oughts  of  me  than  those  you  must  have  had  in 
the  past.  Think  of  me  no  longer  as  a  girl  who  cared  for  you 
io  much  that  she  forgot  modesty  and  delicacy  and  ran  after 
you  wherever  you  went ;  but  think  of  me  as  a  poor,  igno- 
rant child,  who  knew  no  better  than  to  like  the  gentleman 
who  was  kind  to  her,  and  tried  to  amuse  her,  and  who  never 
kne  '  there  could  be  harm  or  shame  in  that  liking.  Think 
of  me  as  I  am — so  ashamed  of  that  past,  so  sorry,  so  hum- 
bled, that  never  for  one  hour  is  the  sickening  memory  absent 
from  me.  Think  of  me  as  a  woman  who  would  give  you 
back  your  freedom  by  the  sacrifice  of  her  life,  if  she  dared — 
as  a  woman  whose  own  existence  is  marred  and  darkened  by 
that  insane  marriage.  Let  us  meet  no  more,  let  us  speak  oA 
it  no  more.  Our  ways  lie  apart — let  us  say  good-by,  here, 
now  and  forever." 

She  turns  from  him  as  she  says  it,  still  hurried,  breathless 
scarcely  knowing  wiiat  she  does.  He  makes  no  answer,  ht 
makes  no  attempt  to,  he  makes  nc  jfTort  to  set  himself  right 
— the  rush  of  her  rapid  words  has  arried  him  away  as  on  a 
torrent.  But  the  picture  she  makes  as  she  stands  th^re,  is 
with  lum  to  the  last  day  of  his  life — beautiful,  impassioned, 
erect,  noble,  vindicating  tier  womanhood,  a  memory  to  be 
with  him  when  he  dies. 

As  she  turns  to  go,  another  door  opens,  Dora  comes  in, 
and  stands  stricken  mute  on  the  threshold,  a  gorgeous  little 
vision,  all  salmon -pmk,  silk,  and  pearls.  He  glances  at  hei 
a  second,  then  looks  kack,  but  in  that  glance  Vera  is  ^ae. 


CMARM.TON  PLACE. 


SI  I 


CHAPIER  IX 


r,n%RLT3N     PLACE. 


:'IOKi7i<.  The  yellow  afterlight  of  a  lovely  dajF 
linp;eri  ovir  the  world,  glints  through  the  brown 
boles  of  the  maples  and  hemlocks,  burning  deep 
ruby  and  bright  orange  in  their  autumn  dress ;  flashes  away 
yonder  in  a  n)iilio:i  ripples  and  stars  of  light  on  the  mirror- 
like  bay,  and  turns  the  western  windows  of  Charlton  Place 
into  sparks  of  fire.  Charlton  in  its  fall  splendor  of  rubies, 
and  russets,  and  yellows,  and  browns,  as  we  saw  it  once  be- 
fore with  Dora  Charlton  and  Vera  Ffrench  sitting  beneath 
its  waving  trees.  Six  years,  with  their  numberless  changes, 
have  come  and  gone  since  then,  and  the  sisters  are  here 
once  more,  with  life  wearing  a  newer,  sadder,  stranger  face 
for  each.  Those  six  years  have  changed  Vera  into  a  beauti 
ful  woman,  wise  with  the  wisdom  that  is  twin  sister  to  sorrow, 
with  a  wearier  light  in  the  large,  dark  eyes,  a  graver  sweetness 
in  the  smile  thm  of  old.  Those  six  years  have  changed  Dora 
unutterably  for  the  worst — harder,  colder,  more  selfish,  more 
wordly  beyond  measure  she  is  than  even  the  hard,  selfish  little 
woman  who  made  herself  Robert  Charlton's  wife.  Robert 
(;!)harlton  lies,  with  folded  hands  and  the  daisies  above  him, 
ovei  in  St.  Jude's  church-yard,  a  monument  of  granite  and 
gilt  bearing  him  down,  and  setting  forth,  in  glowing  record, 
his  virtues.  Dora  is  the  wife  of  another  man — a  man  who 
never,  at  his  best,  was  worthy  to  tie  the  latchet  of  Robert 
Charlton's  &hoes.  At  his  best  if  a  man  thoroughly  shallow 
conceited,  and  vain  can  ever  have  any  best.  Two  years  aci 
A  half  the  husband  of  the  rich  Mrs.  Charlton  have  left  him  at 
his  worst.     Dora's  greatest  ^n'^vr.y  c<nild  Hjirdly  WT*h  her  a 


i|:|ll^i 


3" 


CHARLTON  PLACE, 


I'     II 

1     I 


nore  wretched  fate  than  is  hers  as  Dane  Fanshawe's  wifti 
If  Richard  Ffreiioh  had  ever  desired  retributive  justice  to 
befall  the  little  usurper  who  stands  in  his  place  and  rules  it 
at  Charlton,  he  need  but  look  at  her  as  she  paces  up  and 
down  her  room  this  October  evening,  waiting  for  the  so.md 
ef  carriage  wheels  that  will  tell  her  her  husband  has  coine, 
£i  er  small  face,  pale  at  all  times,  is  bluish  in  its  pallor  oow  ; 
the  rich  dinner-dress,  of  black  lustreless  silk  and  velvet,  that 
trails  after  her,  increases  that  pallor ;  her  blue  eyes  flash 
with  that  lurid  light  of  rage  blue  eyes  only  can  flash ;  her  lipi 
are  set ;  her  little  hands  are  clenched. 

"The  villain  !  "  she  breathes.  "The  scoundrel !  the  liar  I 
die  forger !  After  all  I  have  done  for  him — all  he  has  mado 
doe  suflfer — the  position  in  life  he  has  attained  through  me— 
to  return  me  this  /  Oh,  I  hate  him !  I  wish  I  had  been 
dead  before  I  ever  married  him  I  But  I  will  desert  him — I  will 
tell  him  so  this  very  night !  He  shall  learn  whether  I  am  to 
be  robbed  and  outraged  in  this  way  with  impunity ! " 

She  clenches  her  hand  more  viciously  over  a  crushed 
paper  she  holds,  and  walks  excitedly  up  and  down  the  room. 
Now  and  then  she  puts  her  hand  over  her  heart,  as  a  sharp 
spasm  catches  her  breath.  Oh  !  these  spasms,  daily  increas- 
ing, daily  growing  sharper — harder  to  bear.  Is  it  not  enough 
to  be  a  martyr  to  them,  to  feel  with  an  a\vful  thrill  of  horror 
that  at  any  moment  one  of  these  spasms  of  the  Heart  may  stop 
that  heart's  beating  forever  ?  Is  not  this  enough  that  she 
must  also  bear  the  endless  misery  and  wrong  inflicted  upon 
her  by  her  heartless  husband  ?  If  she  only  did  not  care  few 
him  !  But  is  it  not  in  the  spaniel  nature  of  woman  to  love 
best  the  hand  that  strikes  hardest  ?  And  she  knows  she 
cmrea  lor  him — that  she  could  not  leave  him  if  she  would,  in 
spite  of  infidelity,  coldness,  indiff'erence,  slight — or  may  it  be 
said,  because  of  them  ?  She  cares  for  him,  and  that  is  why  the 
blows  fall  so  bitter  and  hard  to  bear.  It  is  only  those  we  love 
vho  have  nower  to  wound  our  hearts.     Others  may  stab  oai 


V),l 


CHARLTON  PLACE, 


313 


ftnity,  our  antcut  propre^  but  love  no  one  and  the  <vhole  world 
combined  will  never  break  your  heart.  She  is  in  the  white  heat 
of  rage  just  now,  and  in  that  rage  is  capable  of  saying  and 
doing  pretty  much  anything  ;  so  the  lookout  that  awaits  Mi. 
Dane  Fansliawe  is  not  a  pleasant  one,  did  he  but  know  it. 
He  is  used  to  warm  receptions,  though  not  in  the  endearing 
tense,  and  the  knowledge  that  he  richly  deserves  every  rating 
he  gets,  and  a  good  many  he  does  not  get,  enables  him  tc 
endure  them  with  philosophy.  Indeed,  this  gentleman  is  a 
philos«)pher,  or  nothing.  There  is  nothing  new,  and  nothing 
true,  and  it  doesn't  signify,  and  it  is  the  Song  of  the  Wife, 
the  world  over,  this  tune  Dora  loves  to  sing.  He  is  a  Sy- 
barite, and  never  lets  life's  rose-leaves  crumple  beneath  hira 
if  he  can  ;  worry  glides  oflf  his  mind  as  dew  off  a  cabbage- 
leaf,  never  a  drop  sinks  in.  It  is  one  of  his  principles,  and 
about  the  only  principle  he  is  conscious  of. 

Two  months  have  passed  since  the  return  of  the  Dane 
Fanshawes  and  Miss  Martinez  from  their  prolonged  Euro- 
pean sojourn — two  months  spent  alternately  at  Newport  and 
in  New  York.  Mrs.  Fanshawe  left  Newport  in  haste,  be- 
cause Mr.  Fanshawe  became  suddenly  and  violently  epris  of 
ft  certain  dashing  young  widow  of  two-and-twenty,  which  gay 
little  fisher  of  men  netted  all  alike,  married  or  single.  They 
spent  September  in  New  York,  and  the  transition  realized 
the  truth  of  the  old  saw — "  out  of  the  frying  pan  into  the 
fire."  Mr.  Fanshawe's  excesses  were  simply  maddening  to  Mr. 
Fanshawe's  wife.  The  green-eyed  monster  laid  hold  of  Dora's 
j-voor  little  heart,  gc  where  she  would,  and  never — let  it  be 
laid  for  Mr.  Fanshawe — never  once  without  good,  solid, 
fubstantial  reason.  The  latest  reason  was  a  popular  opera* 
houffe  prima-donna^  substantial  in  the  sense  that  she  weighed 
well  on  to  two  hundred  avoirdupois.  The  bracelets,  diamond 
rings,  bouquets,  and  poodles — this  last  melodious  luxury  had 
a  passion  for  poodles — that  found  their  w^ay  to  Mile.  Lalage*! 
hotel,  and  that  Dora's  money  paid  for,  would  have  drtven 


>  <l 


314 


CHARLTCN  PLACE. 


mm 


m 


Mi!!;! 


:il( 


ilil 


!  11  ! 


Dort  mad  had  she  known  it.  What  she  did  know  was,  that 
Mr.  Fanshawe  lived  at  the  rate  of  aoout  twenty  thousand 
dollars  a  year,  and  that  even  the  Charlton  ducats  would  "ot 
hold  out  forever  with  a  double,  treble,  fourfold  diain  upci 
them.  The  paper  she  holds  in  her  hand  to-day  is  the  lasl 
straw  that  breaks  the  camel's  back — it  is  a  forged  check  for 
the  sum  of  five  thousand  dollars,  and  Dora  is  white  with 
passion  to  the  very  lips.  Large  as  her  income  is,  she  lives 
beyond  it — doubly  beyond  it,  as  Mr.  Fanshawe  draws  upon 
her.  She  dresses  herself  and  Vera  superbly,  she  denies  her- 
self no  pleasuK,  no  luxury  that  money  can  buy ;  but  if  the 
forged  check  system  begins,  before  five  years  more  she  will 
be  as  she  was  in  the  Dora  Lightwood  days — penniless.  And 
it  seerns  to  her  now,  after  these  years  of  wealth,  that  soonei 
than  go  back  to  that  phase  of  existence,  she  would  glide 
quietly  out  of  life  in  a  double  dose  of  morphine. 

Hark  !  Carriage- wheels  at  last,  driving  as  Mi.  Fanshawe 
drives  always,  recklessly  fast.  She  pauses  in  her  walk,  her 
eyes  glittering  with  passionate  excitement,  and  waits  and 
listens.  She  was  ill  when  he  went  up  to  New  York  two  days 
ago — surely  common  decency  will  send  him  first  of  all  to  hci 
side.  But  common  decency  and  Dane  Fanshawe  long  ago 
shook  hands  and  parted — he  does  not  come  to  his  wife.  She 
hears  him  run  upstairs  whistling  cheerily,  pass  on  to  his  own 
looms  quite  at  the  other  end  of  the  passage,  and  the  dooi 
close  after  him  with  a  bang  She  waits  two,  four,  ten  min 
utes,  then  patience  ceases  to  be  a  virtue.  She  flings  wide 
her  door,  and  raises  her  voice —always  of  unsuitable  compasv 
for  her  small  body,  and  shriller  now  and  more  \  ieroing  thar. 
ever,  sharpened  as  its  edge  is  by  anger. 

"Mr.  Fanslawe." 

"My  angel!"  promptly  and  pleasaii^cly  comes  the  .e* 
fponse.  Mr.  Fanshawe  knows  better  than  to  feign  deafness 
when  Mrs.  Fanshawe  calls  in  that  tone.  His  door  c^^ens,  he 
lUndv  half  divested  of  his  dusty  travelling  suit  just  ritbin  it 


?  t' 


CHARLTON  PLACE. 


311 


r  waa,  that 
'  thousand 
nrou^  not 
rain  upcn 
s  the  las  I 
check  for 
vhite  with 
she  lives 
aws  upon 
enies  her- 
but  if  the 
e  she  will 
2SS.  And 
at  soonet 
)uld  ghde 

Fanshawe 

walk,  her 

(vaits  and 

two  days 

all  to  hci 

long  ago 

ife.     She 

his  own 

the  dooi 

ten  min 

ngs  widt 

compasr 

ing  thar. 


the  .e« 
deafness 
pens,  he 
khin  it 


'*  Come  Lere,  if  you  please,"  commands  Dora  in  a  voico 
diat  would  g3  very  well  with  a  box  in  the  ear,  and  to  teH 
the  truth  it  is  the  very  endearment  Dora's  little  fist  is  tingling 
to  administer. 

Mr.  Fanshawe  looks  in  plaintive  appeal  ^rom  his  wife  la 
his  dishabille. 

*'  My  angel,"  he  murmurs,  "  if  you  could  wait,  although 
I  know  you  won't,  until  I  have  had  a  bath,  ar«d  dressed 
for " 

"  Never  mind  your  dress.  Such  wedded  lovers  as  we  are 
need  not  stand  on  the  order  of  their  costume  surely.  Come 
here  at  once." 

"  Now  I  wonder  what  is  the  latest  indictment,"  says  Mr. 
Fanshawe  to  himself  with  a  gentle  sigh,  but  obeying.  "My 
lady  looks  as  if  the  jury  had  found  a  true  bill." 

He  enters  his  wife's  room,  deprecatingly,  submissively.  If 
a  few  gentle  looks,  a  few  pleasant  words,  even  a  few  off-hand 
husbandly  caresses  will  soothe  her  down,  he  is  willing,  most 
willing,  more  than  wiUing  indeed,  to  administer  them.  They 
cost  so  little,  and  he  has  known  them  to  go  so  far.  Like 
penny  buns,  they  are  cheap,  and  very  filling  at  the  price- 
Fine  words  may  not,  as  a  rule,  butter  parsnips,  but  from  a 
neglectful  husband  to  a  weak-minded  wife  they  do  wonders 
Mr.  Fanshawe  has  tried  their  power  and  knows.  So  he  gives 
Dora  a  pleasant  look,  a  pleasant  little  smile,  and  holds  out 
hn  hand  to  draw  her  to  him.  But  Dora  waves  him  off  and 
Oack.  standing  like  a  small,  furious,  tragedy-queen  in  her 
sweeping  silks  and  velvet,  and  thread  lace,  her  blue  eyes 
ahght  w^ilh  rage,  her  little  figure  quivering  in  the  intensity  of  its 
pasbion.  Her  husband  has  done  as  much,  and  more  than  this, 
many  t  time  before,  but  she  is  smarting  under  a  long  course 
of  slight  and  wrong,  and  pain  and  affront,  and  this  is  just 
the  last  drop  in  a  brimming  cup.  He  sees  that  it  is  a  hope* 
less  case,  the  coming  tornado  is  not  to  be  averted ;  so,  with 
a  gsntle  regretful  sigh,  he  sinks  wearily  into  the  softest  chaii 


t    \ 


Si6 


CMARLTOS  PLACE. 


itiMiii'i 


the  room  contains.  There  is  to  be  a  scene  ;  it  ii  hieritable 
Poor  soul  I  it  is  her  greatest  failing,  this  tendency  to  make 
scenes.  They  bore  him  horribly ;  reproaches  tire  him ;  and 
it  is  so  foolish  of  poor  Dora,  too,  for  they  do  no  good ;  ^hey 
never  by  any  possibility  can  do  good,  and  it  is  bad  foi  het 
health  and  everything.  He  really  wonders  at  her.  It  would 
be  so  much  more  pleasant  all  round,  if  she  would  but  takd 
things  easily.  He  never  finds  fault  with  her.  What  is  it 
now  ?  Can  his  having  escorted  Mile.  Lalage  to  Rockaway 
yesterday,  and  given  her  those  diamond  ear-rings,  have  come 
to 

Mrs.  Fanshawe  saves  him  all  further  surmise.  She  holdt 
out  the  crumpled  paper,  in  a  blaze  of  wrath. 

**  Dane  Fanshawe  !  *  she  cnes ;  "  do  you  see  this  ?  " 

The  question  is  pertinent,  for  Mr.  Fanshawe  lies  back  in 
his  soft  chair,  his  handsome  blonde  head  lying  against  its 
azure  silk  back,  his  handsome  blue  eyes  closed,  apparently 
sinking  gently  into  sweetest  slumber.  But  at  this  ringing 
'][uestion  he  looks  up. 

"  That,  my  love  ?  "  He  deliberately  puts  up  his  eye-glass, 
ind  inspects  it.  "  Well,  really,  you  know,  one  piece  of 
paper  looks  so  much  like  another,  that " 

"  It  is  your  forged  check  for  five  thousand  dollars  1 " 

"  Ah  !  "  says  Mr.  Fanshawe,  and  drops  his  glass.  "  Yes, 
the  forged  check."  He  looks  his  wife  steadily,  quietly,  de- 
liberately, in  tlie  eyes.  "Yes,"  he  says  again,  "it  hoi  a 
familiar  look,  now  that  I  see  it  more  closely.  Well  my  love/* 
— a  sneer,  devilish  in  its  calm,  cold-blooded  malignity  — 
**  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  it  ?  " 

She  lays  her  hand  on  her  heart,  and  stands  panting,  look- 
big  at  hin:  One  of  these  ghastly  twinges  has  just  grasped 
ner,  her  lips  turn  blue,  her  breath  conr^s  brokenly ;  she  ab« 
solutely  cannot  speak,  so  deadly  is  her  anger 

He  sits  and  regards  her  unmoved,  his  face  hardening 
•lowly  until  for  all  feeling  it  shows,  it  might  be  a  handsome 


inevitable 
Y  to  make 
him;  and 
ood;  ^hcy 
id  foi  het 
It  would 
Ibut  takA 
Vhat  is  it 
BLockawaj 
lave  come 

She  holda 

is  ?  " 

IS  back  in 
Lgainst  its 
ipparently 
IS  ringing 

eye-glass, 
piece  of 

:sl" 
"Ye«, 

^ietly,  de- 
it  /las  a 
ly  love/* 

Llignitj  — 

|ng,  look- 
grasped 
she  ab* 

rdeniDf 
idsome 


CMjtMLJVJ^  PLACE. 


31; 


of  white  stone.  Not  one  faintest  touch  dL  coini)astioa 
for  the  woman  before  him  moves  him.  An  evil  life  haa 
thoroughly  brutalized  and  hardened  him  ;  under  all  his  soft, 
society  languor,  half  real,  half  affected,  there  is  the  pitileu 
heart  of  a  tiger. 

"  This — this  is  all  you  have  to  say,"  she  gasps. 

'^All,"  says  Mr.  Fanshawe,  and  watches  her  unflinch* 
ingly. 

His  hard,  pitiless  gaze,  something  in  the  cold,  cruel  steadi> 
ness  of  his  face  frightens  her — appalls  her.  She  realizes  for 
the  first  time  that  she  is  talking  to  a  man  of  flint — that 
beneath  those  sleepy  blue  eyes,  that  low  trainante  voice,  that 
silken  smile,  their  is  neither  heart  to  feel,  soul  to  pity,  nor 
conscience  to  know  remorse.  Her  hands  drop  ;  for  the  first 
time  she  has  found  her  master.  In  all  their  marital  battles 
hitherto  she  has  stormed  on  to  the  end,  and  he  has  listened, 
bored,  wearied,  but  resigned.  *'  I  have  drank  the  wine — I 
must  take  the  lees,"  his  patient  silence  has  said. 

But  this  is  different — something,  she  cannot  define  what, 
in  his  face,  in  his  eyes,  turns  her  cold  with  a  slow,  creeping 
sense  of  fear.  She  shrinks  from  him  and  turns  without  a 
word.  There  is  a  blank,  thrilling  pause.  Not  even  when 
she  goes  to  the  window  and  looks  out  does  he  avert  that 
basilisk  stare.  For  Dora — her  transport  of  rage  is  gone,  the 
whole  world  seems  dropping  away  from  under  her  fe^t.  She 
is  realizing,  in  a  strange,  appalled  sort  of  way,  mat  cnis  man, 
nearer  and  more  to  her  than  any  other  human  being  on 
earth,  is  a  villain,  and  a  villain  without  one  redeeming  trait 
of  love  or  pity  for  herself.  Heaven  help  the  wife  to 
whom  this  truth  comes  home — good  or  ill  she  may  be — but 
Heaven  help  her  in  that  hour,  for  help  on  earth  there  can  be 
none. 

"  Is  this  the  end  ?  "  asks  the  deliberate  voice  of  Mr.  Fan- 
shawe, at  last.    ''May  I  go  and  dress,  or  has  more  got  to  b« 


3iS 


CUAXLTOH  PLACE. 


■1 


;'!M:l 


;|! 


ii 


i    I     I ' 


*<  Go  t  '*  she  answeri,  in  a  stifled  voice,  <'  and  I  prif 
Heaven  I  may  never  see  your  bitter,  bad  face  again.'' 

She  cov^ers  her  own  with  her  hands,  crushed  as  he  has 
never  seen  her  crushed  in  their  married  life  before.  She 
links  down  or.  her  knees  by  the  bed,  and  hides  her  white^ 
quivering  face  upon  it.  For  him,  he  rises  and  stands  gazing 
down  upon  her,  not  one  trace  of  the  hard  malignity  leaving 
him. 

"  Listen  to  me,"  he  says,  '*  /  have  a  word  or  two  to  say 
and  as  I  don't  speak  often — in  this  way — I  hope  it  will  have 
weight.  There  comes  a  time  in  the  lives  of  most  men,  I 
suppose,  however  long-suffering,  when  curtain-lectures  fall 
and  conjugal  tirades  weary.  I  have  borne  them  for  two 
years  and  a  half.  I  decline  to  bear  them  longer.  I  married 
you  for  your  money — 30U  are  listening,  I  hope,  Mrs.  Fan 
shawe  ? — ^and  you  know  it,  or  if  you  do  not,  the  fault  is 
your  own.  It  was  not  worth  while  to  try  double-dealing ;  I 
never  strove  to  deceive  you,  or — if  you  will  pardon  me — to 
win  yon.  I  married  you  for  your  money,  and  your  money  I 
mean  to  spend,  if  not  by  fair  means,  why,  then  by  foul.  I 
asked  you  for  one  thousand  dollars  a  week  ago  ;  you  refused, 
and  were  abusive,  according  to  your  amiable  custom.  I 
said  nothing  ;  I  took  the  easier  plan— 1  wen '  and  drew  the 
money.  1  am  disposed  to  be  agreeable  myself;  I  like  peace, 
and  pleasant  smiles,  and  friendly  words,  and  I  mean  to  have 
them — if  not  at  home,  why,  then  abroad.  If  you  raged  till 
the  day  of  doom  you  could  not  change  me  or  my  intentions 
one  iota,  it  is  foolish  on  your  part — it  is  teUing  on  you,  my 
angel ,  you  are  growing  prematurely  old  and  disagreeably 
thin — scraggy,  indeed,  I  may  say — ^and  if  there  is  one  creature 
on  this  earth  I  abhor  it  is  a  thin  woman.  Take  my  advice^ 
^Irs.  Fanshawe — it  is  the  first  time  I  have  profifered  it,  it 
shall  be  the  last — while  we  live  together  let  us  sign  a  treaty 
of  peace.  What  I  am  I  intend  to  remain.  Money  I  must 
and  wiL  have  ;  amusement  I  must  and  will  have  also.     Th< 


mm' 


CHARLTOS  PLACE. 


319 


d  I  pnf 

in.' 

s  he  bu 
)re.  StM 
er  white, 
ds  gazing 
y  leaving 

ro  to  lay 

will  have 
}t  men,  I 
ttures  fall 
I   for  two 
I  married 
Mrs.  Fan 
le  fault  is 
lealing;  I 
in  me — to 
money  i 
foul.     I 
refused, 
istom.     I 
drew  the 
ke  peace, 
n  to  have 
aged  till 
ntentions 
you,  my 
igreeably 
creature 
y  advice^ 
red  it,  it 
a  treaty 
y  I  muit 
Th€ 


check  I  admit.  It  is  th«  first  time  ;  '"1  you  loosen  your 
puise-strings  a  little,  it  may  be  the  last.  Pardon  me  fof 
having  inflicted  this  long  speech  upon  you,  but  a  man  muti 
strike  in  self-defense.  Are  you  quite  sure  you  have  no  more 
to  say  ?     I  am  going." 

She  makes  a  gesture,  but  does  not  speak — a  gesture  M 
full  of  stricken  despair  that  it  might  have  moved  him,  but  it 
does  not.  There  is  absolutely  a  smile  on  his  lips  as  he 
turns  to  go.     He  is  victor. 

**A  new  version  of  the  'Taming  of  the  Shrew,'"  he 
thinks.  "  Poor  soul !  she  dies  hard,  but  it  will  do  her  good 
ill  the  end." 

"  He  ain't  never  a  comin'  back  I  s'pose.  Yer  don't  know 
cothin'  'bout  him,  do  yer  ?  Yer  hain't  never  seen  him  no- 
where, have  yer  ?  It's  powerful  lonesome — oh  1  lordy, 
powerful  lonesome — sence  Cap'n  Dick  went  away." 

It  is  Daddy  who  thus  deliverb  himself.  He  stands  shuffling 
from  one  foot  to  the  other,  as  if  the  sand  burned  him,  twist- 
ing his  old  felt  hat  between  his  hands,  hiL  dull,  protruding 
eyes  fixed  wistfully  on  the  lady  who  sits  on  the  grass.  She 
looks  up,  lifting  two  lovely,  soft,  dark,  tender  eyes  to  hii 
face. 

*'  No,  Daddy,"  she  answers ;  **  I  am  afraid — I  don't  think 
he  is  evei  coming  back." 

Her  eyes  wander  from  his  face,  and  look  far  away  acroif 
the  gold  and  lose  light  of  the  sunset.  Those  large  dark  eyes 
have  as  wistful  a  light,  as  pathetic  a  meaning,  a,«  poor 
Daddy's  own.  and  she  stretches  out  one  dusk,  slim  hand,  with 
brilliants  lighting  in,  and  touches  gently  the  grimy  one  of  the 
"softy." 

"  You  are  sorry  ?  "  she  says  softly. 

"Oh  I  ain't  I  just  I  "  responds  Daddy  with  a  burst.  "Ixwl 
how  I  hev  gone  and  missed  him.  Why,  lordy  !  it  seems  like 
a  hundred  years  sence  he  went 


away. 


a  dog  sence  then.     He  wa^  good  to  me,  he  was, '  says  Daddy. 


JJO 


CHARLTON  FLACM. 


Illliil 
11 


drawing  one  grimy  sleeve  acroM  hit  ejrei       ke  wai 
airful  good  to  me  allers." 

<*  Poor  fellow ! "  Vera  says,  with  a  pity  deeper  than  Daddy 
can  comprehend. 

'*  I  ain't  had  no  peace  o'  my  life  ever  sence/'  he  goes  qd» 
crjring,  and  smearing  his  dirty  sleeve  across  his  dirty  face. 
"*  I'm  kicked  about,  and  half  starved  most  the  time,  and  took 
ap  the  rest.  I'm  took  up  so  continiwal,"  cries  Daddy,  "for 
wagrancyand  nowisible  means  o'  s'port,  that  1  a'most  wishes 
they  would  kce|)  me  took  up  altogether.  Nobody's  never 
good  to  me  now  anymore,  and  he  was — oh,  he  was  most 
uncommon  !     And  he  ain't  never  a  comin'  back  no  more  ?" 

"  No  more,"  Vera  repeats.  '*  Oh,  Daddy,  no  more  I  • 
And  then  she,  too,  breaks  down,  and  for  a  while  there  is 
silence.  She  sits  on  a  green  knoll  just  above  the  shore,  the 
long  marsh  grass,  and  rank  flame-colored  flowers,  nodding 
about  her,  the  sea  wind  blowing  her  dark,  loose  hair  as  she 
sits,  her  hat  on  her  lap.  At  her  feet  stretches  away  the  long 
dreary  sweep  of  sand  dune,  before  her  lies  Shaddeck  Bay 
with  the  amber  glitter  of  the  sunset  in  it,  to  the  left  Shaddeck 
Light,  falling  sun  brown  and  wind-beaten,  to  rottenness  and 
decay.  To  the  right  lies  St.  Ann's,  a  few  sounds  of  life 
coming  from  it  faint  and  far  off — the  Aumble  of  a  passing 
cart  over  the  still  streets  quite  audible  here.  Boats  glide 
about  with  the  red  glare  on  their  sails.  Daddy  lingers  near, 
ugly,  c^irty,  ragged,  as  un picturesque  an  object  as  eye 
fouli  Jice,  with  a  hanJful  of  currency  in  his  pocket,  and 
irondenng  admiration  for  the  beauty  of  the  lady  before  him, 
staring  vaguely  in  his  untutored,  masculine  soul.  She  looks 
up  with  a  start  from  her  reverie  at  last. 

"  I  won't  detain  you  any  longer,"  she  says,  gently.  "  Re- 
msmber,  whenever  you  are  in  trouble,  or  in  want  come  to 
me.  Do  not  be  afraid.  I  will  see  you  always^  nelp  you 
always.  I  intend  to  find  you  a  home  somewhere ;  you  shall 
be  starved  and  beaten  no  longer,  ^ny  poor,  poor  Daddy  t   Ht 


CJiAXLTcI^  PLACE, 


sai 


iras  good  to  you- -I  cannot  take  his  place,  but  I  will  <W 


ko  Daddy 

goes  QDi 

lirty  (ace. 
,  and  took 
iddy,  "for 
ost  wishei 
l/t  never 
was  mott 
[)  more  ?  " 
>  more !  * 
;  there  ii 
shore,  the 
s,  nodding 
lair  as  she 
.y  the  long 
ideck  Bay 
Shaddeck 
nness  and 
ds  of  life 
a  passing 
)ats  glide 
ers  near, 
as    eye 
cket,  and 
fore  him, 
)he  lookf 

"Re. 
come  to 
Iftelp  you 
|you  shall 
lyl   Hr 


what  I  can. 


II 


<(' 


Thanky,"  Daddy  says,  with  a  last  wipe  of  the  coat-sleeve 
across  the  bleared  eyes.  **  Yes,  he  were  roost  nnconimol 
good  to  mc ,  hr  'vere." 

So  he  shambles  away,  and  Vera  sits  still  a  long  time, 
her  eyes  full  of  fathomless  pain  and  regret.  It  is  a  month 
nearly  since  their  return  to  Charlton— a  week  since  that 
interview  between  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fanshawe,  of  which  Dora 
has  not  told  her.  Dora  has  been  strangely  quiet  since  that 
time.  Mr.  Fanshawe  has  fluctuated  between  New  York  and 
St.  Ann's  m  his  usual  inconsequent  fashion,  and  Mrs.  Fao- 
shawc  has  compressed  her  lips  ominously,  aiul  said  nothing. 
Perhaps  she  has  an  object  in  view,  her  birthday  is  near— 
her  thirty-third,  alas  t  She  gives  a  large  party,  the  house  is 
filled  already  with  guests  fro  n  New  York,  others  are  coming, 
the  "first  families  "  of  St.  Ann's  are  bidden,  Mrs.  Fanshawe 
means  to  outdo  Mrs.  Fanshawe.  And  she  determines  het 
husband  shall  b«  present. 

It  is  the  rarest  of  rare  things  for  Mr.  Fanshawe  to  grace 
his  wife's  festivities.  No  one  is  more  rarely  seen  at  Charlton 
than  its  nominal  master ;  but  on  her  birthday  he  must,  he 
shall  be  present.  The  world  is  beginning  to  talk  of  their 
connubial  infelicity,  ladies  to  smile  and  shrug  their  shouldessj 
and  comment  after  the  usual  charitable  fashion  of  the  sex. 
What  would  you  ?  She  is  fully  six  years  his  senior ;  she 
looks  fully  six  years  older  than  she  is  ;  she  is  faded,  sour^ 
sickly,  peevish,  jealous ;  and  gentlemen,  you  know,  will  be 
gentlemen,  etc.,  etc.  He  never  cared  for  her,  he  married 
her  for  her  money — he  admits  it;  no  one  ever  sees  him 
with  her ;  no  one  ever  meets  him  at  Charlton.  And  they 
do  say  he  and  Lalage — dreadful  creature  I — are  out  in  tht 
pork  every  fine  afternoon,  and  that  he  drives  four-in-hand  with 
the  coaching-club  to  High  Biidge,  Lalage  besid*  him  o» 
die  box,  smoking  cigarettes  all  the  wav. 


pa 


CHARLTON  PLACE^ 


■|fiiii!";'i ; 


jiji^ii' 

II. 


!!! 


i;  II I 


Dora  knows  it  all,  and  sets  her  small  teeth  in  impotent 
anger  and  despair.  Bat  he  shall  attend  her  birthday  ball-* 
common  decency  requires  that.  She  has  asked  him  calmly, 
V*  Ith  forced  composure,  and  he  has  assented  carelessly. 

*'  Oh,  yes ;  of  course ;  that  will  be  all  right ;  he  will  ba 
on  hand.  The  twenty-second  or  twenty-seventh — ^which  is  it  7 
He  has  the  deuce  and  all  of  a  memory  for  dates." 

He  pulls  out  a  little  betting-book,  and  looks  at  her  with 
his  pleasant  smile.  Dora's  lip  quivers ;  she  is  strangely  sub- 
dued those  last  few  dajrs,  and  is  looking  wretchedly  ilL 

"The  twenty-third,"  she  answers,  and  turns  from  him 
abruptly.  There  are  husbands  who  remember  their  wivesf 
birthdays,  and  their  wedding-days,  and  such  domestic  foolish 
anniversaries,  but  Mr.  Dane  Fanshawe  is  not  of  their  order. 
Still  he  makes  a  memorandum  of  it,  and  that  night  aiki  hi^ 
wife  for  more  money. 

Her  eyes  flash,  but  she  retains  her  calm.  She  has  n« 
money  to  spare.  They  have  been  horribly  extravagant ;  sh« 
has  purchased  a  diamond  collar,  and  this  party  is  costing  en- 
ormously. It  is  quite  impossible.  She  looks  up  at  him  in- 
flexibly as  she  says  it  He  smiles  slightly,  returns  her  look, 
and  moves  away,  humming  a  tune. 

Vera  sits  on  her  grassy  seat,  and  watches  the  crimson,  and 
scarlet,  and  orange  splendor  of  the  sunset  fade  into  pink,  and 
primrose,  and  fleecy  white,  then  into  pallid  gray,  slowly  lit 
and  gemmed  with  golden  stars.  The  gray  deepens  to  gloom ; 
a  chill  night-wind  rises,  a  cold,  sad  sigh  from  the  great  Atlan 
tic.  The  tide  ebbs  away^  and  the  long,  black  bar  is  bare- 
that  bar  over  which  she  walked  to  Shaddeck  Light  and  Rich- 
ard Ffrench.  How  lonely  is  the  night,  and  the  «ea,  and  the 
stars  1 — the  night  wi'^h  its  long,  low,  lamentable  wino  \  the 
sea  with  its  mighty  monotone,  its  deep,  eternal,  melancholy 
plaint  I  the  stars  so  far  oif  in  their  tremulous,  mysterious 
t>eauty  1  "  The  stars  were  called,  and  they  said,  *  We  art 
here,'  and  they  shcne  forth  with  gladness  to  Hira  who  made 


11 ' 


•>  i 


in  impoUnt 
thday  ball — 
him  calmly, 
ilessly. 
;  he  wUl  b« 
-which  if  it  7 
k"      * 
( at  her  with 
trangely  tub- 
dly  UL 

L8  from  him 
•  their  wivci^ 
aestic  fooliih 
f  their  order, 
ight  askihi^ 

She  hai  n« 
ivagant;  ihc 
costing  en- 
at  him  in- 
her  look, 

jcrimson,  and 
ito  pinky  and 
',  slowly  lit 
IS  to  gloom ; 
great  Atlan 
»ar  is  bare— 
and  Rich- 
sea,  and  the 
ie  winQ  1  the 
melancholy 
L  mysteriouf 
jid,  *  We  art 
who  made 


them. '    Something  stiri  in  Vera'i  heart  with  a  great  and  tol 
emn  tlirill — after  all,  one  may  live  for  others,  and  to  win  a 
place  beyond  these  golden  cluitert,  even  when  one's  own  life 
has  come  to  an  end. 

Where  is  Richard  Ffrench  ?  Vera  does  not  know.  She 
has  neither  heard  from  him,  nor  of  him,  since  that  summer 
afternoon  in  London.  He  is  in  Cuba,  perhaps — fighting 
once  more,  or  wounded,  or  ill,  or  dead.  She  knows  nothing. 
She  reads  all  the  Cuban  news,  but  she  never  sees  his  name.  0( 
what  followed  after  her  interview,  between  him  and  Dora,  she 
iocs  not  know.  Dora  has  never  said,  she  has  never  asked 
^NlizX  does  it  matter  ?  All  is  dead  and  done  with,  the  story 
IS  over,  the  book  is  closed,  her  romance  is  ended ;  there  ii 
lothing  left  but  to  begin  again,  with  all  life's  sweetest  posiip 
bilities  shut  out. 

Darkness  closes  down,  darkness  braided  with  sparkling 
stars.  The  sea  lies  a  great,  sighing,  black  mystery;  the 
wind  has  the  icy  breath  o<  coming  winter  in  its  sweep.  Siiad- 
deck  Light  is  only  a  darker  shadow  among  the  shadows, 
desolate,  forsaken,  forlorn — something  to  shudder  at.  How 
strange  to  think  she  ever  spent  a  night  there ;  no  one  will 
ever  spend  a  night  there  again.  She  rises,  chill  in  the  frosty 
wind,  puts  on  her  hat,  wraps  her  shawl  about  her,  and  turns 
to  go  home.  Dora's  guests  will  miss  her,  and  her  life  belongs 
to  Dora  now. 

Poor  little  Dot  I  how  sorry  she  is  for  her — }iow  thm  and 
worn  she  grows — how  frightfully  frequent  are  those  terrible 
heart-pangs.  It  is  all  she  can  do  not  to  hate  Dane  Fanshawe 
— this  cruel,  smiling,  suave  fine  gentleman,  who  breaks  hii 
wife's  heart  as  coolly  and  with  as  little  compunction  as  he 
shoots  a  sea-gulL  In  every  human  face  there  lies  latent  a 
look  of  cruelty — circumstances  may  or  may  not  bring  it  out, 
but  it  is  there — in  his,  though,  more  markedly  than  in  most. 
But  she  is  powerbss — it  is  simply  one  of  the  things  that  must 
be  left  alone — the  less  said  to  Dora  *he  better.     He  r-  alwayi 


!!■•*. 


SH 


CHARLTON  PLACE. 


Hii 


ii!! 


I' I 


iiijl|;it 


itn 


afpedally  attentive  and  deferential  to  herself"~«Ke  is  a  young 
and  handsome  woman,  and  she  is  not  his  wife.  What  a  tre- 
mendous puzzle  life  is — the  truth  comes  well  home  to  Miss 
Martinez  this  evening,  as  she  flutteis  swiftly  homeward  in  the 
uiack  night  breeze — hard  to  enter,  harder  to  live  through,  and 
riardest  of  all  to  end ! 

The  house  is  all  lit  when  she  draws  near,  its  whole  front 
.^«irkling  with  light.  She  enters  and  passes  upstairs  to  her 
room.  Every  one  is  dressing  for  dinner — it  is  a  full-dress  cer 
emonial  every  day  now,  and  then  there  follows  the  long 
evening  in  the  drawing-room,  with  music,  and  flirtation,  and 
carpet  dances,  and  cards.  Vera  wearies  of  it  all,  not  that  lifa 
has  grown  a  bore,  or  pleasure  begun  to  pall,  but  satiet**  doef 
beget  disgust.     She  taps  at  Dora's  door  on  her  way. 

"  Come  in,"  says  Dora's  voice. 

Vera  enters,  and  stands  in  wonder. 

What  is  the  matter  with  Dot  ?  There  is  a  fierce,  wild  fire 
in  her  eyes,  her  pale  face  is  excited,  she  sits  writing  rapidly 
at  her  desk.  A  buff  envelope  lies  on  the  floor,  a  paper — a 
telegram  near  it. 

"  Read  that,"  Dora  says. 

She  spurns  with  her  foot  the  paper,  and  writes  on.  Vera 
stoops  and  picks  it  up.  It  is  from  Mr.  Fanshawe,  and  is  dated 
Philadelphia. 


"  Cannot  come  on  tyrenty-tUxd.     Most  manage  the  high  jinks  withovt 
Obliged  to  go  to  Baltimore.     Wiih  yon  many  happy  retnraa  all 


••  Dans  Fanshawk.** 


tbe 


Vera  drops  the  telegram  as  if  it  had  stung  her  ;  she  knowt 
how  Dora  has  set  her  heart  on  his  being  present  at  the  ball 

**  Oh,  this  is  too  bad,  too  bad ! "  she  cries  ou;. 

Dora  looks  up ;  to  the  last  day  of  her  life  Vera  never  fbr, 
f  ets  that  look,  nor  the  slow,  weird,  icy  smile  that  goes  witk 
it 


BUSBAND  AND  WtFM. 


m 


is  a  young 
/hat  a  tre. 
le  to  Miis 
leard  in  the 
irough,  and 

vholc  front 
airs  to  hcf 
ll-dress  cer 
5  the  long 
rtation,  and 
not  that  life 
satiet^  docf 
ay. 


ce,  wild  fire 

^ng  rapidly 

a  paper — a 


on.    Vera 
ind  is  dated 


*  Lalage  it  In  Philadelphia,*  she  wkjt, 

"  Dot  I " 

'<  He  has  gone  after  her.     How  do  I  xnow  ?    I  hare  em 

ployed  a  detective  1 " 

She  laughs  aloud  at  her  sister's  start  and  look  jf  constemfr 
tion — Dora's  wild,  eldrich  laugh. 

**  A  detective,  my  dear ;  it  has  come  to  that.  The  tel» 
gram  has  just  arrived ;  here  is  my  answer.     Read  it" 

Vera  takes  it,  stupefied. 

**  As  yoa  hare  gone  with  that  woman,  itaj  with  her.  Coma  hcrt  •• 
more.     I  will  never  live  with  yoa  again,  so  help  me  God  1 " 

An  hour  later  Mrs.  Fanshawe  sits  among  her  guests, 
beautifully  dressed,  painted,  perfumed,  smiling,  radiant  with 
life  and  pleasure.  Her  shrill  laugh  rings  out,  oftener  and 
shriller  than  any  one  ever  has  heard  it  before. 

"  What  a  very  dissonant  laugh  Mrs.  Fanshawe' s  is  ?  "  one 
sensitive  lady  says,  shrinkingly,  "  and  how  wildly  her  eyes 
glisten.     I  hope  she  does  not  use  opium." 

Vera  sits  silent,  pale,  frightened,  distresi»ed.  And  far 
away,  as  lUrange  a  message,  perhaps,  as  ever  flashed  over 
the  wires  is  speeding  on  its  lightning  course  to  Mr.  Dane 
Fanshaw". 


\  i« 


|jinkswitho«t 
retvnsall 

Inshaw*.** 

she  knowi 
It  the  ball 

never  fbr, 
goes  witk 


CHAPTER  X. 


HUSBAND    AND    WIFE. 


1  is  the  night  of  the  birthday-ball,  a  dark,  windy, 
overcast  night,  threatening  rain.  The  Charlton 
mansion  is  ablaze  with  light,  from  attic  to  cellai 
tU  is  bustle,  preparation,  expectation.  In  their  rooma, 
the  guests  of  the  house  are  dressing.     In  hers  sits  the 


III 


V6 


KVSBAtrr  AlfO  WITB, 


Mil! 


■il  ! 


:!  :!}!i 


ii 


.1;  il 


li'i 


!!l  ;i  :l : 


treii — ihe  whoie  natal  day  all  the  fplendor  of  to-night  ii  la 
honor. 

Fdician  is  busily  and  skilfiUy  at  work ;  the  remit  Is  to 
surpass  every  previous  effort. 

"  Make  me  young  and  pretty  to-night,  Fdlician/*  her 
mistress  cries,  with  a  gay  laugh,  "  if  you  never  do  it  in  your 
life  again  I " 

And  Fdlician  is  doing  her  best.  The  golden  hair  is 
frizzed,  and  puffed,  and  curled,  and  banded  in  a  wonderful 
and  bewildering  manner  to  the  uninitiated.  Not  much  of  all 
that  glittering  chevelure  dor'te  grows  on  Dora  Fanshawe's 
head,  but  who  besides  F61ician  is  to  know  that  ?  Her 
iress  is  one  of  Worth's  richest  and  rarest — a  dream  of 
izure  silk  and  embroidered  pink  rosebuds,  point  lace  more 
costly  than  rubies,  and  diamonds — such  diamonds  as  will 
not  Hash  in  her  rooms  to-night. 

She  wears  brilliants  in  a  profusion  indeed  that  is  almost 
barbaric — they  flash  on  her  fingers  ana  arms — woefully  thin 
arms,  that  it  requires  all  F^lician's  skill  to  drape  so  that 
tiieir  fragility  may  not  show ;  they  sparkle  in  her  ears,  in 
her  hair,  and  run  like  a  river  of  light  round  her  neck. 
But  her  blue  eyes  outshine  them;  they  are  filled  with  a 
streaming  light,  her  cheeks  are  flushed,  her  dry  lips  are 
fever  red. 

**  Make  me  pretty  to-night,  F^lician — make  me  young 
and  pretty  to-night  I  *'  is  again  and  again  her  cry,  until 
even  F^lician  looks  at  her  in  wonder. 

Perhaps  after  all  the  hint  of  the  lady  last  night  concerning 
0|)ium  is  not  entirely  without  foundation.  She  is  in  a  state 
of  half  delirious  excitement,  she  hardly  feels  the  flocr  beneath 
her — she  seems  to  float  on  buoyant  air. 

Life  looks  all  rose-color  and  radiance — pair  poverty 
shame,  sorrow,  things  blotted  out  of  the  world.  Ae  b  in 
the  dawn  of  a  new  life,  she  is  on  the  verge  of  \  complete 
revolution  of  all  that  has  hitherto  made  up  her  existence 


HUSBAND  AND   WIFE. 


327 


No  one  it  old  at  three  and  thirty ;  Ninon  de  I'Encl'M  won 
hearts  at  eighty,  notably  her  own  grandson's  among  them ; 
and  she  is  still  pretty — where  are  the  crow's  feet,  and  the 
bluish  pallor  of  cheeks  and  lips  to-night  ?  No  one  shall  spoil 
her  pleasure,  no  one  shall  darken  her  life  ;  freed  from  Dan« 
Fanshawe,  she  will  begin  anew,  and  eat,  drink,  and  be  merry^ 
and  hold  black  care  and  blue  devils  at  bay  forevermore  1 

The  sound  of  singing  reaches  her,  it  coraes  softly  and 
sweetly  from  Vera's  room.  Vera  dresses  always  with  a 
rapidity  little  she  ^t  of  miraculous  in  Mrs.  Fanshawe's  eyes. 
It  is  only  on  the  sad  side  of  thirty,  that  women  stand  for 
wistful  hours  before  their  minors,  gazing  ruefully  on  what 
fhey  see.  Dora  has  an  innates  inborn,  ingrained  passion  for 
iress ;  Vera  forgets  what  she  wears  five  minutes  after  it  if 
on.  Her  sweet,  fresh,  young  voice  comes  from  across  the 
^-orridor  to  Mrs.  Fansh;».we's  ears. 

**  Late,  late,  so  late  I  and  dark  the  night  and  cUlll 
LAte,  late,  so  Utel  but  we  can  enter  still. 
Too  i»te,  too  late  I  ye  cannot  enter  now.  « . 

'  No  li^ht  had  we,  for  that  we  do  repent  { 
And  learning  this  the  bridegroom  will  relent. 
Too  late,  too  late!  ye  cannot  enter  now." 

tt  is  th^  song  of  the  Foolish  Virgins.  There  is  profound 
pathos  in  the  words  as  Vera  sings  them.  Dora  lifts  her  eyes 
to  a  picture  that  hangs  on  a  wall  opposite,  a  picture  she  has 
brought  from  Florence,  and  that  tell?  the  same  mournful 
story  her  sister  sings.  It  is  a  weird,  melancholy  thing  enougli, 
but  it  has  struck  Mrs.  Fanshawe's  capricious  fancy,  (t  is  a 
night  scene ;  the  "  blackness  of  darkness  "  shrouds  the  sky 
like  a  pall,  and  faintly  through  that  dense  gloom  you  catch 
the  shadowy  outline  of  a  fair  white  mansion — faint  gleams 
of  ligAt  coming  from  its  closed  portals.  Outside  that  closed 
door  the  shadowy  forms  of  women  crouch — the  whole  picturs 
inJced  is  shadowy  and  indistinct,  in  distoited  positions  of 


ii 


y  ;| 


■! 


iijS' 


3j8 


aUSPAND  AND   WIFE, 


•uffering  juid  despair.  Their  unlit  lamps  hang  frcm  ihek 
nervcleafi  hands,  their  faces  are  shrouded  in  their  fallen  hair. 
One  alone  lifts  her  face  to  the  rayless  night-sky,  and  a  glim* 
mer  from  the  door  falls  on  and  lights  it.  It  is  %.  face  not 
easily  forgotten ;  some  deadly  horror,  some  awful  fear,  loss 
kOve,  laughing — all  are  in  that  white,  uplifted,  tortured  face 
**An.l  The  Door  Was  Shut,"  is  the  name  of  the  painting. 
A  singular  and  spectral  sort  of  picture  for  a  lady*s  chamber, 
but  it  has  a  fearful  sort  of  a  fascination  for  Dora.  She  knows 
that  solemn,  beautiful  story,  although  she  never  opens  ano 
makes  a  scoff  of  the  Book  wherein  it  is  told  What — she 
thinks  it  now,  a  dread  thrill  shuddering  through  all  her  wild 
exultation  of  feeling — what  if  all  that  Book  tells  be  true, 
what  if  after  this  life  of  purple  and  fine  linen,  and  feasting 
sumptuously  every  day,  another  begins,  that  tremendous 
other  preachers  preach  of — of  darkness  and  torment,  and 
the  eternal  wailing  of  lust  souls  ?  And  if  there  be  that  other, 
what  place  does  it  hold  for  all  those  awful  eternal  years  for 
such  as  she  ? 

«« No  l^ht ;  lo  late  !  and  dark  and  chUl  the  sight  1  ** 
TIm  sweet  pathetic  voice  comes  across  the  hall  again : 

**  O,  let  01  in  that  we  mav  find  the  light  1 
Too  late,  too  late  I     fe  cannoi  enter  now. 

"  Hare  we  not  heard  the  bridegroom  is  so  tweet  ? 
O,  let  us  in,  the'  late,  to  kiss  his  feet  1 
No,  no,  too  late  1    Ye  cannot  enter  now." 

Dora's  excited  nerves  cannot  bear  it.  She  puts  her  handi 
over  her  ears  with  a  sharp,  sudden  cry. 

"  It  is  horrible  I  I  hate  it  1  Go  to  Miss  Vera's  room, 
F^cian,  and  tell  her  to  stop  singing  that  wretched  song,  and 
J  &he  is  dressed  to  come  and  talk  to  me  here." 

*  •  •  «  «  «  • 

One  hour  later.    Over  the  road  leading  from  St  Ann's  to 


HUSBAND  AND   WIFE, 


1^ 


Charlton  Place,  two  men  waik,  one  rapidly,  in  long,  iteadj^ 
itrides,  the  other  more  slowly,  and  keeping  well  cut  of  sight. 
They  are  not  together — the  lagging  wayfarer  lags  purpose\y 
to  avoid  the  rapid  walker  before.  It  a  a  lonely  road  on  a 
•tmlit  noonday.  It  is  a  desolately  lonely  road  on  a  Ltarlest 
night.  The  trees  nearly  meet  overhead,  beneath  is  a  gulf  of 
darkness.  A  fine  drizzling  rain  is  beginning  to  fall,  a  high 
complaining  wind,  with  a  touch  of  November  in  its  quality, 
twirls  through  the  tree-tops,  and  whistles  sharply  past  the 
ears  of  the  wayfarers.  The  surf  cannonades  the  shore  in 
dull,  heavy  booms,  and  the  sun-charged  sky  gives  promise  ol 
a  wild  fall  storm  before  morning. 

**  Bad  for  the  coasters  and  the  fisher  folk,"  the  first  pedes- 
trian says  to  himself,  struggling  with  a  fiercer  blast  than 
before.     "  A  wild  night  at  Shaddeck  Light  1 " 

A  wild  night  at  Shaddeck  Light — a  wild  night  everywhere, 
a  wild  night  for  belated  pedestrians,  a  wild  night  for  Mrs 
Fanshawe*s  guests.  But  in  Mrs.  Fanshawe's  brilliantly-lit 
parlors,  heavy  curtains  shut  out  of  sight  the  blackness,  out 
of  hearing  the  wind.  A  fine  band  of  music,  down  from  the 
city,  drowns  with  resonant  waltz  music  the  beat  of  the  rain 
on  the  glass,  and  the  dash  of  the  surf  on  the  shore.  Mrs. 
Fanshawe,  a  \ision  from  dreamland  or  operaland,  in  her 
Paris  dress  and  diamonds,  her  gilded  hair  and  rose-bloom 
cheeks,  receives  her  guests  like  a  queen.  Men  look  at  her, 
stricken  with  sudden  wonder  and  admiration — very  young 
men  particularly ,  whose  way  it  is  invariably  to  fall  in  lore 
with  womeii.  a  dozen  years  their  elder.  It  is  so  safe,  too, 
to  flutter  about  this  gorgeous  moth,  who  showers  smiles  on 
•11  with  dazzling  impartiality.  "  The  greatest  charm  of  a  mar- 
ried woman  is  invariably  her — ^husband."  Dora  Lightwood, 
mtat  tbree-and-thirty,  would  be  a  sliarp-boned  husband-hunt- 
er, to  be  feared  and  shunned — Dora  Fanshawe,  married  and 
brilliant,  eclipses  every  young  maiden  p:  tsent  wilh  her  auda* 
cious  beauii  du  diahle.     Not  one  fair  virgin  of  them  alb  -not 


!   f 


'■<   U 


■  h! 


H 


$9> 


mmBAlTD  AND  WIFE, 


3\ 


,1 

1,1 » 


iiiilll 


mm\  II 


Hi 


Stately,  dark-eyed  Miss  Martinez  Merself,  will  receiii  t  half  the 
adulation  to-night  that  will  Dane  Fanshawe's  neglected  wife. 

The  foremost  of  the  two  men  reaches  the  open  entrsmc* 
gates,  and  the  strains  of  the  '*  Beautiful  Blue  Danube  floAt 
out  and  welcome  him.  A  look  of  annoyance  passes  over 
his  face. 

"  A  party,"  he  mutters ;  "  have  I  come  in  vain  then  after 
all?  Nol"  he  adds,  suddenly,  'Met  who  will  be  here,  I 
know  she  will  see  me." 

He  draws  near  the  house,  bright  with  illumination,  and 
pauses.  The  music  sinks  and  swells,  flitting  forms  past 
rapidly.  He  stands  irresolute  a  moment  and  gazes  at  the 
picture.  Around  him  the  darkness,  the  drifting  rain,  the 
surging  trees,  the  long  lamentable  blast,  himself,  a  solitary 
figure — within  there,  floods  of  gas-light,  crashes  of  music,  a 
wilderness  of  flowers,  and  the  "dancers  dancing  in  tune." 
The  contrast  strikes  him  with  a  jarring  sense  of  pain,  he  turns 
impatiently  away,  and  goes  rcmd  to  the  side  of  the  house, 
with  the  air  of  one  who  knows  his  locality  well.  A  dooi 
stands  slightly  ajar — he  enters  a  hall,  and  a  woman-servant 
:>assing  through  with  a  tray  of  ices  stops  and  stares. 

''Can  I  see  Harriet  Hart?"  he  asks.  "Is  she  house* 
fceeper  here  still  ?  " 

"  Miss  Hart  is  housekeeper — yes,  sir,"  answers  the  woman, 
still  staxmg. 

He  is  a  gentleman  evidently,  also,  evidently  he  is  not  a 
fuest. 

"  Who  wants  Miss  Hart  ?  "  calls  a  sharp  voice,  and  Har 
net  herself  appeai-s  sjperfine  in  brown  silk,  a  shade  or  two 
lighter  than  her  ccmplexion,  her  little  black  eyes  as  sharp, 
her  flat  figure  flatter,  her  acrid  voice  more  acrid,  if  possible^ 
dian  of  old. 

The  stranger  taKes  ofl'  his  nat  with  a  smile,  an  standi  r« 
realed.     She  gives  a  little  shriek  and  recoil. 

"  I^ord  above  I "  she  cries,  "  Captain  Dick  I " 


mVSBAND  AND  WIFE. 


w 


e  half  the 
icted  wife, 
entranct 
iibe  float 
uses  over 

then  aftef 
>e  here,  I 

ation,  and 
brms  pass 
izes  at  the 
g  rain,  the 
,  a  solitary 
of  musir^  a 
g  in  tune." 
in,  he  turns 
j  the  house,  , 
1.  A  dooi 
nan-servant 

;s. 

she  house* 

he  woman, 

e  is  not  a 

,  and  Eiar 
ide  or  two 
\  as  sharp, 
possible^ 

standi  T» 


''Bad  snillingi  always  come  back,  do  they  not,  MIm  Har« 
riet  ?     I  see  you  well,  I  hope,  after  all  these  yean  ?  " 

She  does  not  reply ;  she  stands  silently  staring  at  him, 
aghast. 

"  I  have  given  you  a  shock,  I  am  afraid.  It  if  1  in  thi 
flesh,  I  assure  you,  and  no  apparition.  What  is  going  on-^ 
a  ball?" 

<'  A  birthday-ball — missis'  birthday.  Good  Lord  I  Captain 
Dick,  what  a  turn  you  have  given  me  I  Who*d  ever  a  thought 
it?" 

'*  So  it  seems,"  he  says,  half  laughing,  half  impatient.  "  It 
is  a  mistake,  I  find,  taking  people  by  surprise.  We  used  to 
be  tolerable  friends,  I  believe,  but  you  really  do  not  se^^m 
over  glad  to  see  me.  Well,  it  is  the  way  of  the  world,  out  of 
sight  out  of  mind." 

**•  It  ain't  my  way,  though,"  says  Harriet,  grimly,  and  stretch- 
es  out  her  hand. 

Six  years  ago,  if  any  comer  of  Harriet's  vestal  heart  could 
be  said  to  be  bestowed  on  obnoxious  man,  bright,  debonair, 
handsome  Dick  Ffrench,  sunny  of  glance,  sunny  of  smile,  gay 
of  voice,  dashing  of  manner,  had  that  corner,  and  no  rival  has 
ousted  him  since. 

"  Welcome  home.  Captain  Dick,  to  the  l'A>use  that  ought 
to  call  you  master  instead  o'  them  that  ain't  fit  to  wipe  your 
shoes.  I'm  glad  to  see  ye,  and  there  ain't  many  men  folk 
on  airth  Harriet  Hart  would  say  tJiat  to.  When  did  you 
come  ?  " 

"  To-night  from  New  York.  Harriet,"  abruptly,  "  I  want 
to  see — Miss  Vera." 

He  pauses  before  the  name,  and  flushes  as  he  ?ays  it 
Harriet's  sharp,  beady  black  eyes  seem  to  go  through  his 
rough  overcoat,  straight  to  his  spinal  marrow,  as  she  standi 
and  transfixes  him. 

<*  Yes  ?  "  she  says,  shutting  up  her  thin  month  like  a  tnp 
**Miss  Vera  I — h-m-m  !  Mrs.  Fanshawe,  too?  " 


'r 


m 


1 


u 


iiic-i 


w 


f'.i'     !■ 


;   liil 


llllli     i! 


Hi  i  III    i' 


353 


HUSBAND  AKD   ITIFE, 


**  No,  ^[rs.  Fanshawe  need  not  be  disturbed.  Tell  Miff 
t-ira " 

"  Come  this  way,"  cuts  in  Haxriet,  and  leads  him  to  het 
own  sittiiig-rooni. 

It  is  a  cuzy  apartment;  as  befits  a  housekeeper  of  Misi 
Hart's  temper  and  long-standing  at  Charlton.  A  blight  red 
coal  fire  burns  in  the  grate,  a  cat  curls  up  comfortably  before 
it,  a  rocker  sways  by  thi»  hearth-rug,  china  dogs  and  »asei 
are  on  the  mantle,  red  moreen  shuts  out  the  rain-beaten 
night,  and  shuts  in  the  glowing  fire  lit  "interior."  A  flash 
of  recognition  comes  into  her  visitor's  eyes  as  he  enters — a 
flash  half  pleasure,  half  pain. 

'*  It  is  like  old  times  to  be  here,"  he  says,  standing  befoxo 
the  fire. 

"  Ah,  old  times,"  responds  Harriet.  "  I  wish  to  goodness 
gracious  mercy  old  times  would  come  back.  We  had  some 
peace  and  comfort  of  our  lives  then.  Tm  old  myself,  and 
new  times  don't  suit  me — lazy  fine  gentlemen  a  loafin'  about, 
and  chuckin'  of  the  chamber-maids  under  their  sassy  chins  ; 
cross  missises  that  an  angel  would  have  to  give  warnin'  to 
every  other  month ;  eatin'  and  drinkin'  goin'  on  perpetual 
from  nine  in  the  momin'  to  nine  at  night ;  a  rush  o'  people 
fillin'  the  house  and  draggin'  the  help  off  their  feet ;  wimmir 
with  their  clothes  hangin'  off  their  bodies,  only  a  strap  of  lace 
M:ross  their  nasty  shoulders  to  keep  'em  on ;  playin'  billiards 
and  crookay,  and  gaddin'  about  with  the  men  folks,  and  they 
inakin'  the  whole  place  beastly  with  their  cigars.  Faugh  I  if 
fl  wasn't  for  Miss  Vera,  I'd  a  left  long  ago." 

He  lifts  his  head  at  the  sound  of  her  name ;  the  rest  ol 
Harriet's  v.iledictory  has  been  lost 

"  Miss  Vera,"  he  repeats  ;  "  yes,  Harriet,  tell  Miss  Vert  Z, 
am  here.  Tell  her  I  have  come  from  New  York  on  the  eve 
of  my  departure  for  Cuba  to  see  her,  and  will  de.ain  her  from 
her  friends  but  a  few  moment  8." 

He  leans  his  elbow  on  the  low  chimney-piece,  uid  seems 


feU  MM 

m  to  hef 

r  of  Misf 

C)iight  red 
bly  before 
and  »asei 
ain-beatffn 
A  flash 
enters — a 

ing  befoic 

3  goodness 
had  some 
nyself,  and 
afin'  about, 
issy  chins ; 
warnin'  to 
perpetual 
o'  people 
wimnkir 
rap  of  lace 
n'  billiards 
,  and  they 
Faugh  1  if 

le  rest  oi 

[iss  Vera  I, 

m  the  eve 

In  her  from 

id  seems 


• » 


HUSBAND  AS  If    WlfE 


133 


to  relapse  into  reverie.  Harriet  gives  him  cue  last  keea 
glance  as  she  turns  to  go.  Vera  is  his  wife — at  least  the} 
went  to  church  one  day  to  be  married — why  then  does  she 
not  behave  as  Huch  ?  It  is  part  and  parcel  of  the  new  state 
of  things  going  on  at  Charlton,  of  the  lopsy-turvy  sort  of  life 
thrse  peo[>le  lead,  dining  until  nine,  dancing  until  one,  brcak- 
bsting  in  bed  near  noon,  married  women  making  eyes  at 
unmarried  njen,  a  few  of  the  fastest  and  friskiest  young  mat- 
rons smoking ! 

Deep  disgust  weighs  down  Harriet's  soul,  speechless  wrath 
flames  upon  them  out  of  her  needle  eyes.  Miss  Vera  is  the 
leaven  that  lightens  the  whole  mass.  She  never  carries  on 
like  a  skittish  young  colt  in  a  paddock,  she  never  makes  a 
fool  of  herself  and  disgraces  her  sex  with  these  slim-waisted, 
cigar-smoking,  mustached  young  dandies,  who  part  their  hair 
down  the  middle,  and  stare  at  her  (Harriet)  as  though  she 
were  some  extinct  species  of  the  dodo.  But  she  is  a  married 
woman,  and  she  does  not  live  with  her  husband,  thus  much 
she  conforms  to  her  world  and  her  ordor. 

Harriet  goes  to  the  different  doors  and  scrutinizes  the  dan- 
cers. Scorn  inexpressible  sits  on  her  majestic  Roman  nose 
as  she  looks  at  the  waltzers — half-dressed  waists  clasped  so 
closely  in  black  broadcloth  arms.  She  is  not  there.  "  For 
which,  oh,  be  joyful  1 "  says  Miss  Hart,  turning  away.  Yon« 
der  ih  her  missis,  looking  as  if  a  rainbow  and  several  pink 
and  blue  clouds  had  been  cut  up  to  make  her  gown.  "We'd 
a  scorned  to  put  red  and  blue  together  in  my  time,"  si  e  solil- 
oquizes ;  "we'd  better  taste."  Among  ali  the  reeling, 
swaying,  voluptuous-looking  throrsj  Mr«^.  Fanshawe  whirls 
and  wheels,  the  bright,  particular  star  of  the  night,  waltzing 
Ai  ii  her  feet  touched  air. 

Vera  is  not  here.  Harriet  visits  the  music-room,  the  con- 
servatory, and  finds  her  at  last  actually  sitting  out  the  waltz, 
talking  to  a  popular  poet  down  from  New  Vork,  and  lookinf 
as  if  she  preferred  it. 


;       I 


I 


i    ' 


334 


HUSBAND  AND   WIFM» 


':  HI 


1,1 

Hi  • 

% 

H.'. 

Iff'il' 


*'  Miss  Vera,"  in  a  rasping  whisper. 

She  turns  from  her  long-haired  poet  with  a  laJIc. 

"  Yes,  Harriet,"  she  says,  in  her  gentle  way. 

"  There's  a  visitor  for  you ;  he's  in  my  room,  a  irtitH' 
He's  down  from  New  York,  and  wants  to  see  you." 

*'  A  visitor,"  Vera  says,  in  surprise,  "  for  me  ?  Not  • 
guest  ?  Who  can  it  be  ?  It  is  not,"  laughing  slightly — "  it 
ii  not  Daddy?" 

"Daddy  I"  retorts  Harriet,  with  scorn.  "Well  I  ifi  th% 
next  thing — it's  Daddy's  master,  leastways  as  was.  It's  Cap 
tain  Ffrench." 

Vera  rises  to  her  feet  She  forgets  poet  and  party,  iha 
•tands  confounded  and  looks  at  the  speaker. 

**  It  is  Captain  Ffrench— Captain — Dick — Ffrench,"  layt 
Harriet,  tersely.^  "  and  he*s  a-waitin'  in  my  room  a  purpose 
to  see  you.  "  He  wont  keep  you  long ;  hr  told  me  to  tell 
you  so,  and  he's  goin'  to  Cuba,  he  told  me  to  tell  you  that, 
too." 

She  puts  her  hand  to  her  head.     The  shock  of  surprise  ii 
great,  but  the  shock  of  sudden,  intense  joy  is  greater.     Colo 
nel  Ffrench  here  1     Her  heart  gives  one  great,  i^l^ua  bound, 
and  then  pulsef  on,  a  hundred  a  minute,     li  a  wiln  some 
thing  less  than  the  usual  high-bred  grace  and  wnnr,  for  whid 
Miss  Martinez  is  justly  famous,  thai  she  tumii  to  her  poe'c 
and  makes  her  excuses.       Then  without  a  word  to  Harriet 
she  follows  her  to  the  dour  of  that  lady's  bcndoir.     There 
Miss  Hart  unseals  ner  lips. 

*'  He's  in  there  a-waitin';  you  don't  want  ia*>  to  introduce 
yovLy  1  reckon,"  she  says,  with  grim  humor,  and  goes. 

Vera  stands  a  moment.  In  that  moment  a  change  comei 
over  her ;  she  is  the  Vera  the  world  knows  again.  The 
■hock  is  past ;  there  is  no  need  for  her  to  be  glad  to  see  this 
Doian.  He  has  mistaken  her  once,  he  shall  not  aga^n.  Dora's 
words  return  to  her ;  whatever  the  business  'hat  brings  hiin 
here,  it  is  quite  unnecessary  that  she  si  ould  show  gladness 


mUSBAHD  AHD   WIPE, 


ISS 


>    Not  a 

htly— "  it 

1  if  •  tht 
It's  Cap 

party,  iha 

ich,"  layi 
A  purpoM 
me  to  tcU 
,  you  that, 

surprise  ii 
fir.     Colo 
iA  bound, 
rim  some 
for  whid 
her  poe'c 
o  Harriet 
There 

introducs 

U. 

Ige  comei 

in.     The 

|o  see  thif 

Dora' I 

[rings  hi;a 

gladnett 


ai  his  coming,  or  trouble  him  with  an  effufi^e  welcome. 
There  is  not  a  man  dancing  there  in  the  ball-room  who  is 
not  as  much  to  her  as  this  man  is  ever  likely  to  be.  She 
takes  herself  well  in  hand,  then  opens  the  door  and  goes 

lA. 

He  turns  quickly.  Miss  Ma-tinez's  taste  in  dresi  haa  the 
effect  always  of  looking  simple,  and  gives  beholders — male 
beholders — the  idea  of  beauty  unadorned.  In  reality,  her 
wardrobe  rivals  in  expense  Dora's  own.  She  wean  white 
to-night — creamy  white  silk,  with  ornaments  of  dull  yellow 
gold,  some  touches  of  rich  old  lace,  and  a  crimson  rose  in 
her  hair.  Her  splendid  eyes  light  like  brown  stars  the  duik 
pallor  of  her  Spanish  face.  That  pallor  is  deeper  than  usual, 
the  laces  rise  and  fall  with  the  rebellious  beatings  of  the  heart 
l>eneath  them,  but  he  does  not  distinguish  the  pallor,  does 
not  hear  the  heart-b  ats,  so  no  harm  is  done. 

**  This  ii  •  very  unexpected  pleasure,"  she  says,  smilingly, 
and  with  the  instinct  of  hospitality  holds  out  her  hand. 
"  I^t  me  welcome  you  back  to  Charlton,  Colonel  Ffrench.'* 

He  holds  for  a  second  the  slender  unresponsive  hand,  thee 
drops  it,  and  places  a  chair  for  her. 

"  Will  you  not  sit,  too  ?  "  she  asks. 

*<  No,"  he  answers,  and  resumes  his  place  by  the  chimney 
and  his  former  position.  She  has  not  said  much,  but  some- 
thing in  her  tone,  in  her  eyes,  chills  him,  as  th«*  cold  night 
wind  sighing  about  the  gables  could  never  do.  In  her 
beauty  and  her  pride,  her  rich  dress,  the  gleam  of  yellow 
gold,  as  she  sits  in  the  ruby  shine  of  the  fire,  she  seems  i»o 
fax  off,  so  high  above  him,  that  he  turns  his  eyes  away  with 
a  feeling  akin  to  despair. 

He  realizes,  as  he  has  never  icalized  before,  that  \he  Vera 

of  six  years  ago  is  as  utterl}'  gone  out  of  this  world  as  th  ough 

the  daisies  grew  over  her  grave.     This  beautiful,  reticent, 

graceful,  chill-voiced,  fine  lady,  is  no  more  his  black-eyed^ 

anghing,  romping,  loving,  madcap  Vera  than^-^ 


336 


masBAAV  Aim  mrs. 


m\\ 


The  brown  eyes  flash  up  their  golden  light  suddenly  npot 
him. 

"When  did  you  come?"  she  asks — "from  England,  1 
mean  ?  " 

**  Three  days  ago." 

"  I  trust  you  left  all  our  mutual  friends  very  well  ?  " 

He  turns  his  eyes,  fixed  moodily  on  the  fire,  with  a  swift» 
(MLssionate  glance  to  her  face. 

<'I  saw  Sir  Beltran  Talbot  before  I  left!"  he  wf, 
abruptly. 

"  Yes  ?  "  Her  voice  does  not  change,  but  a  faint  cokM 
rises,  and  the  hand  that  holds  her  fan  is  not  quite  steady. 

'*  And  I  know  that  you  refused  him.    Vera,  why  ?  " 

She  meets  his  glance  steadily — slow,  intense  surprise  and 
anger  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  decline  to  answer  that  question.  I  deny  your  right  to 
ask  it" 

"  I  claim  no  right,"  he  says,  steadily.  "  It  should  be 
ample  enough.  Heaven  knows  ;  but  a  right  enforced — in  this 
case — would  hardly  be  worth  the  claiming.  Vera,  I  wonder 
if  any  other  human  being  ever  changed  so  utterly  in  six 
years  as  you  have  done  I  There  is  not  a  trace,  not  a  tone, 
not  a  look,  of  the  little  Vera  of  that  past  summer  left." 

A  smile  breaks  the  proud,  set  gravity  of  her  face — a  smil<» 
of  triumph. 

'•  You  preferred  that  other  Vera  ?"  she  says. 

He  looks  at  her  again,  and  the  story  his  eyes  tell,  is  the 
•tory  told  since  the  world  began — to  be  told  till  the  woxld 
ends. 

•  •  I  liked  that  other  Vera,"  he  answers ;  "  I  love  this  1 " 

She  is  lying  back  in  the  chair ;  now  she  sits  suddenly 
erect  The  words  give  her  an  absolute  shoe  k.  She  believes 
Dora's  fiction  ;  she  believes  implicitly  in  that  "  some  one  " 
in  Cuba ;  she  has  never  dreamed  herself  other  than  a  drag 
on  his  life,  uot  easih'  gotten  rid  of^  and  now,  to  hear  this  t 


MUSBAND  ANB   WIFE, 


%VI 


Und,  1 

a  twiftt 

e  sayti 

nt  cokM 
ady. 

n 

rise  and 

right  to 

lould  be 
—in  this 

wondei 
y  in  six 

a  tone, 

ft." 
a  sinilf! 


L  is  the 
ie  woxld 

lis  1 " 
iddenly 
)elievei 
one'* 
a  drag 
Ithis ) 


*'  Itf  all  these  years,"  he  goes  on,  <'  the  image  of  tkat  othci 
/«ra  has  never  left  me.  I  saw  her  always  as  I  saw  her 
^8t '' 

He  stops'  abruptly  at  a  gesture  from  her. 

"As  you  saw  me  last,"  she  repeats  slowly  "  Yes,  neither 
of  us  is  likely  ever  to  forget  thaty 

Some  of  the  old  pain,  the  old  humiliation  of  that  day  re- 
ttvns  to  her  now  across  the  years.  Again  she  is  crouching 
in  the  summer-house,  her  wedding-dress  crushed  amid  the 
rank  weeds  and  damp  grasses,  listening  to  the  strident  voice 
that  denounces  her  as  a  bold  creature,  lost  to  all  modesty  or 
maidenly  pride.  A  liush  passes  over  her  face,  a  light  comei 
into  her  angry  eyes,  her  fluttering  hands  grow  steady,  her 
swift  heart-beats  cease.  Some  perverse  spirit  enters  into 
her  If  she  ever  acknowledges  to  this  man,  forced  to  marry 
hei,  that  she  loves  him,  then  she  deserves  all  Mrs.  Charl* 
ton  has  said. 

"  I  saw  always  the  little  Vera  I  had  left,"  he  goes  on  -• 
"  my  dear,  little,  bright-eyed  child-bride ;  I  came  back  iind 
found  her  a  woman,  more  beautiful  than  I  had  ever  thought 
my  little  gipsy  could  be,  and  from  the  first  hour  I  knew  her 
I  loved  her.  That  she  had  forgotten  me,  except  as  one  who 
stood  between  her  and  happiness,  I  was  told,  and  did  not 
loubt.  It  seemed  natural  enough.  But  I  begin  to  doubt 
///  I  luve  heard,  some  truth  there  may  be,  but  also  many 
alsehoods.  You  refused  Sir  Beltran  Talbot — you  could 
liOt  do  otherwise,  of  course,  but  it  is  the  knowledge  of  that 
refusal  that  has  sent  me  here.  Vera,  I  have  little — ^your 
world  will  tell  you  nothing,  to  oflfer — but  my  love,  deep, 
changeless,  true,  I  give  I  Is  our  marriage  indeed  to  bo 
looked  upon  as  a  misfortune  ?  Can  you  never  be  my  wife 
in  reality,  as  well  as  in  name  ?  " 

lie  stops,  catching  his  breath  hard.  It  is  not  when  the 
beait  is  fullest  the  lips  are  most  eloquent.  The  proudly 
han<i5ome  face  before  him  does  not  soften  one  whit.     Fof 


I  ! 


% 


;  i 


33« 


HUSBAND  AND  WiFJL 


the  first  time  she  doubts  Richard  Ffrench's  word.     SHit  if  ia 
a  false  position— is  it  to  sare  her  from  it  he  speaki  now  ? 

"  I  know  of  old/'  she  answers,  *'  how  romantic  and  chi¥i> 
alrous  is  Colonel  Ffrench's  sense  of  duty.  It  led  him  once 
to  marry  a  foolish,  flighty  school-girl,  when  he  would  have 
done  much  better  to  have  rated  her  soundly  for  her  folly  in 
running  after  him,  and  gone  and  left  her.  If  I  had  loved 
Sir  Beltran  Talbot,  perhaps  not  even  the  fact  of  that  non- 
sensical marriage  would  have  been  strong  enough  to  prevent 
my  telling  him  so,  al  least.  I  am  not  a  very  perfect  persoii ; 
no  one  knows  that  better  than  I.  But  my  marriage  had 
notliing  to  do  with  my  refusal — understand  that.  As  to  tne 
sacrifice  you  propose  to  make,  in  accepting  the  wife  thrust 
upon  you  six  years  ago,  while  deeply  grateful,  I  yet  decline 
My  life  suits  me  very  well.  I  am  not  a  blighted  being.  I 
can  dispense  with  lovers  in  the  present,  and  a  husband  in 
the  future,  extraordinary  as  it  may  seem.  Your  friend  I 
shall  always  be.  Colonel  Ffrench ;  your  wife,  other  than  I 
am  now — never  I " 

Her  pride  is  strong  within  her,  it  rings  in  her  voice,  h 
flashes  in  her  eyes.  Surely  she  has  vindicated  herself  a* 
last. 

For  a  moment  he  does  not  speak.  In  that  pause  a  greal 
burst  of  music  comes  from  the  ball-room,  the  first  bars  of  a 
grand  triumphal  march.     He  speaks  first 

**  You  mean  this  ?  "  he  slowly  says. 

''  I  mean  this,"  she  answers,  and  meets  his  eyes  full. 

<<  Then  there  is  no  more  to  be  said.  Pardon  me  for  hav- 
ing said  so  much,  for  having  taken  you  from  your  friends. 
Good-night,  and  good-by." 

An  impulse  is  upon  her,  thoroughly  contradictory,  and 
thoroughly  womanly,  to  call  him  back,  to  claim  him,  keep 
him,  love  him.  Vera  is  a  very  woman,  and  consistently  in- 
consistent. A  flush  sweeps  over  her  face,  to  the  very  teo^ 
pies. 


A   CRY  IN  THE  NIGHT. 


339 


**  Oh,  CDme  back !  do  not  go  1  *'  is  on  her  lips,  but  ner  Hpf 
refuse  to  speak.  She  stands  so  a  moment,  battling  with  hei 
pride,  and  in  that  moment  he  goes.  The  door  closes  behind 
turn ;  the  sweep  of  the  triumphal  march  speeds  him ;  he  is 
gone  without  even  the  poor  return  of  an  answer  to  his  good 
night     Pride  has  fought  and  won. 

A  wise  general  has  said,  that  next  to  a  great  defeat  a  great 
victory  is  the  most  cruel  of  all  things.  Perhaps  Vera  real- 
izes this  now.  She  sits  where  he  has  left  her,  feeling  faint 
and  sick,  her  face  hidden  in  her  hands. 

The  crashing  tide  of  the  music  comes  down  to  her ;  the 
feet  of  the  dancers  echo  overhead.  She  must  go  back  to 
them,  make  one  of  them,  wear  a  smiling  face  to  the  end. 
She  loves  Richard  Ffirench,  and  she  has  sent  him  away  ;  in 
the  last  half  hour  she  has  done  what  she  will  regret  her 
whole  life  long. 

Meantime  the  unbidden  guest  is  gone.  Once  more  he  if 
in  the  outer  ''^rkness,  in  the  night  and  the  storm.  The  mel- 
ancholy ram  still  drips,  drips ;  the  melancholy  wind  blows  in 
long,  sighing  blasts ;  the  black  trees  toss  about  like  tall 
specters  against  the  blacker  sky.  And  a  figure  sheltered 
beneath  them — the  lagging  pedestrian  of  soi  hour  before — 
watches  him  with  sinister  eyes  until  he  is  out  of  sight 


■m 


hav- 
;nds. 

and 

^eep 

ly  in* 


CHAPTER  XI. 


A  CRY  lit  YHE   NIGHT. 


IRS.  FANSHAWE'S  ball  is  what  Mrs.  Fanshawe 
hai  meant  it  to  be — a  brilliant  success.  Her  own 
spirits  never  flag  ;  she  dances  incessantly,  the  red 
of  her  cheeks  redder,  the  ught  of  her  eyes  brighter,  as  the 
hours  wear  on.     Who  shall  say  that  this  radiant  little  hostess, 


340 


A  CRY  IS    THE  mCHT, 


*'ill 


dancing  like  a  Bacchante,  wild  with  high  spirits,  flirting  witk 
the  men  about  her  with  desperate  recklessness  and  levity,  ii 
a  neglected,  slighted,  supplanted,  unloved  wife  ?  At  suppef 
«he  drinks  iced  champage  as  if  parched  with  fever-thirst, 
until  Vera's  brows  contract  with  wonder  and  alarm.  She 
keeps  near  her  sister  through  it  all ;  something  in  Dora's 
rild  excitement  startles  her ;  she  dances  scarcely  once  after 
her  return  to  the  ball-room. 

**  Where  have  you  been  ?  "  Dora  asks,  hitting  her  a  per- 
fumed blow  with  her  fan.  "  Why  do  you  wear  that  owl-like 
face  ?  This  '&  no  place  for  owlish  faces.  Why  do  you  not 
dance  ?  Everybody  has  been  asking  for  you.  \Vhat  is  the 
matter  with  you  to-night,  my  solemn  Vera  ?  " 

Her  elfish  laugh  rings  out — she  flits  on.  A  gentleman 
passing  smiles  to  the  lady  on  his  arm. 

'*  A  case  of  twinkle,  twinkle,  little  star  1 "  he  remarks. 
''What  a  radiantly  happy  woman  our  charming  hostess 
must  be  ! " 

The  lady  shrugs  her  shoulders,  and  puts  out  a  scornful 
little  chin. 

"  She  is  half  crazy  to-night,  or — tipsy  with  her  own  cham- 
pagne !  Did  you  not  see  how  she  drank  at  supper?  It 
was  perfectly  shocking.  See  her  sister  watching  her. 
Beautiful  girl,  Miss  Martinez — do  you  not  think  ? — a  perfect 
tyi)e  of  the  handsomest  sort  of  brunette." 

The  gentleman  smiles  slightly,  knowing  better  than  to  ac- 
r^pt  this  artful  challenge ;  but  the  eyes  that  rest  for  a  mo- 
ment on  Vera  have  in  them  a  light  that  makes  his  fair  friend 
bite  her  lip. 

"  Some  romance  attaches  to  her — it  does  not  seem  quite 
;:lear  what — but  something  connected  with  Dick  Ffrench. 
¥ou  remember  Captain  Dick,  of  course.  I  have  heard>  but 
that  i  do  not  believe,  that  she  was  privately  married  to  hint 
before  he  went  away." 

"Fortunate  Dick  Ffren^b  I  * 


A  CRY  IN  THE  mGHl, 


541 


quite 
lench. 
),  but 
bin 


**  Oh,  it  IS  a  myth  of  course — they  say  being  the  only 
Authority.  It  is  added  that  she  was  very  desperately  in  love 
mth  him,  but  that  statement  also  is  to  be  taken  with  a  pmch 
of  salt.  She  was  little  better  than  a  child  at  the  time — I 
ecollect  her  well ;  a  tall,  slim  girl,  with  a  thin,  dark  face,  big 
black  eyes,  and  hardly  a  trace  of  the  stately  beauty  we  all 
admire  now.  Look  at  Mrs.  Fanshawe  with  Fred  Howell  I 
Really,  Mr.  Fanshawe  should  be  here  to  keep  his  wife  in 
order.  No  one  advocates  matrimonial  freedom  more  than 
I  do,  but  there  is  a  line,  and  she  oversteps  it.  Upon  my 
word  she  is  quite  too  horrid." 

Such  comments,  from  ladies  principally,  run  the  round  of  the 
rooms.  The  gentlemen,  more  indulgent,  only  glance  at  each 
other,  and  smile.  All  recall  afterward,  when  the  tragedy  of 
this  night  rings  through  the  country  with  a  thrill,  her  brilliance, 
her  Hashes  of  wit,  her  reckless  spirits,  her  incessant  dancing, 
her  flushed  cheeks,  her  streaming  eyes,  her  flashing  dia- 
monds. Censorious  tongues  stop  then  appalled,  fair  censors 
falter — they  recall  her  only  as  a  bright  little  butterfly,  look- 
ing hardly  accountable  for  her  acts,  so  fair,  so  frail,  so  almost 
unearthly.  But  just  now,  before  the  curtain  falls  on  that 
last  act,  and  the  intoxication  of  music,  and  waltzing,  and 
wine  is  at  its  height,  they  do  not  spare  her.  One  or  two 
words  fall  on  Vera's  ears,  and  her  eyes  flash  out  their  indig- 
nation  on  the  speakers.  They  are  her  guests,  they  break 
her  bread  and  eat  her  salt,  and  sit  in  judgment  on  her.  But 
oh  !  what  ails  Dot  ?  How  rash  she  is — she  has  never  gon^ 
to  such  extremes  before.  It  is  more  of  Dane  Fanshawe't 
work  ;  he  has  goaded  her  to  madness ;  this  is  her  reckless 
tcvenge. 

Perhaps  it  is  as  well  for  Vera's  peace  of  mind  that  co 
time  is  left  her  to  think  of  herself  or  her  own  wayward  folly. 
She  has  acted  like  a  fool  in  one  way — Dora  is  acting  like  a 
fool  in  another  ;  there  is  little  to  choose  between  them,  that 
she  admits  bitteily.     She  keeps  as  clot:  to  Dora  as  may  be  ' 


■  t 


t 


1  I 


\\ 


ill 


343 


A  CRY  IS  THE  NIGMT. 


■he  tries  to  restrain  her  unperceived ;  she  iMolutelj  riifmw 
to  dance. 

"  For  pity's  sake,  Dot,  do  not  go  on  so — every  one  is  look* 
bg  at  you,' '  she  whispers,  angrily,  once.  "  You  are  insane, 
X  think,  to-night.  Do  not  dance  with  Fred  Howell  again. 
He  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  himself " 

But  Dora  interrupts  with  one  of  her  frequent  bursts  of 
laughter. 

"  Oh^  Fred,  listen  here  1 "  she  calls  ;  "  here  is  richness  I 
I^ook  at  Vera's  owlish  face  ;  listen  to  her  words  of  wisdom. 
'  Do  not  dance  with  Fred  Howell  again.  He  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  himself ! '  Are  you  ashamed,  Fred  ?  You  ought 
^o  be,  if  my  sober  sister  says  so — she  is  never  wrong." 

Mr.  Howell  stoops  and  whispers  his  answer.  He  glances 
at  Vera  with  a  malicious  smile,  he  owes  her  a  grudge  foi 
more  than  one  cut  direct,  and  he  cordially  hates  super- 
cilious Dane  Fanshawe.  He  is  paying  a  double  debt  to- 
uight,  in  compromising  his  hates.  Vera  draws  back,  mdig- 
nant  and  disgusted,  and  sees  them  go,  Dora  clinging  to  his 
arn^.  Fred  Howell's  tall,  dark  head  bent  over  her  blonde 
one — the  most  pronounced  flirtation  possible. 

But  it  ends  at  last.  Mrs.  Fanshawe,  foolish  though  she  be 
in  many  things,  is  wise  enough  never  to  let  daylight  sur- 
prise her  well-bred  orgies,  and  stare  in  on  haggard  faces  and 
leaden  eyes.  A  little  after  three  the  guests  begin  to  depart, 
at  half-past  the  roll  of  carriages  is  continual,  at  four  all  but 
the  guests  are  gone.  And  when  the  last  good-night  is  said, 
Dora  Fanshawe  drops  into  a  chair,  and  lifts  a  lace  to  her 
sister,  a  face  so  drawn,  so  worn,  so  miserable,  that  all  hef 
ifns  and  follies  are  forgotten.  As  by  the  touch  of  a  magic 
wand,  every  trace  of  youth  and  prettiness  departs  in  a 
second. 

**  I  am  tired  to  death  1     she  says.    *'  I  am  tired  to  death  1 
She  draws  a  long,  hard  breath,  and  flings  up  her  arms  ovci 
her  head.     "  I  am  tired  to  death — tired— tired — tired  I  " 


retam 

Lslook* 

insane, 

again. 

inU  of 

:hne88  1 
visdom. 
t  to  be 
u  ought 

• 

glancef 
idge  foi 
;  super- 
debt  to- 

,  indig- 
to  his 

blonde 


A  CMY  m  THE  NIQMT, 


543 


I 


1  she  be 

;ht  sur. 

,ces  and 

depart, 

all  but 

is  said, 

to  her 

all  hef 

magic 

ts  in  a 

leathl 
isovai 

l" 


There  is  weariness  unspeakable  in  the  gestme,  heart-sick- 
ness so  utter^  so  desperate,  that  Vbra's  anger  melts  like 
snow.  She  has  meant  to  scold  Dora  for  her  madness,  but  all 
words  of  reproach  die  away  in  a  passion  of  pity  and  love. 

"  My  poor  little  dear  I "  she  says.  As  a  mother  might, 
the  gathers  the  flower-decked,  jewel-crowned  head  to  her 
breast.  "  Oh  1  my  Dot,  you  have  not  been  yourself  to- 
night. I  have  been  frightened  for  you.  I  am  so  glad  it  is 
all  o\  er,  and  that  you  can  rest.  No  wonder  you  are  tired— 
you  have  danced  every  dance.  Let  me  take  you  t*  your 
room,  and  help  you  to  bed." 

Without  a  word  Dora  rises,  and  trails  her  rich  ball-robe 
slowly  and  wearily  up  the  stairs  to  her  own  room.  Here 
«he  sinks  in  a  powerless  sort  of  way  again  into  the  first  chair. 

"I  am  dead  tired,"  she  repeats,  mechan'cally.  **  If  I  only 
could  sleep  and  not  wake  for  the  next  forty-eight  hours, 
I  might  be  rested  by  the  end  of  that  time.  Nothing  less  will 
Jo." 

She  lifts  her  heavy  and  dim  eyes,  and  they  fall  on  the 
dreary  picture  of  the  "  FooUsh  Virgins."  There  they  remain 
in  sombre  silence  for  a  long  time.  Vera  sends  away  F^li- 
cian  and  disrobes  Dora  herself  with  swift,  deft  finders,  with 
soft,  soothing  touches. 

"  Do  you  know,"  Dora  says,  at  length,  "  that  through  it 
all — the  crash  of  the  band,  and  the  whirl  of  the  German, 
and  the  talk  of  those  men — the  face  of  that  woman  there 
has  haunted  me  like  a  ghost  ?  I  can  understand  now  how 
men  take  to  drink  to  drown  memory  or  remorse.  All  these 
long  hours  it  has  been  beside  me.  Sometimes  when  I  looked 
in  Fred  Howell's  face — ^faugh  !  what  a  fool  he  is  ! — it  was 
the  deadly  white  face  of  that  crouching  woman  I  saw.  And 
the.  words  went  with  the  vision — *  Too  late,  too  late  I  ye 
cannot  enter  now  1 '  They  have  been  ringing  in  my  ears 
like  a  death-knell." 

"  You  are  morbid  ;  your  nerves  are  all  unstrung,"  is  Vera'f 


\\  > 


i:.M 


11:' 


544 


A   CMT  IN  THE  NiGHT. 


answer.  ''  I  wish  I  had  not  sung  it.  It  is  a  weiid  picture-* 
gloomy  enough  to  haunt  any  one.  Do  not  look  at  it  aaj 
more.  Shut  your  poor  tired  eyes  while  I  brush  out  yott) 
hair ;  it  will  quiet  you." 

But  the  sombre  blue  eyes  never  leave  the  picture,  rjid, 
when  she  speaks  again,  her  question  startles  her  sister,  so 
that  she  nearly  drops  the  brush. 

"  Vera,"  she  lays,  "  are  you  afraid  to  die  ?  " 

"Dot!" 

'*  Afraid  of  the  awful  loneliness,  the  awful  darkness,  the 
awful  Unknown.  Vera,  Vera  !  /  am.  I  am  afraid  to  grow 
old ;  but  I  hope — I  hope — I  hope  I  may  be  seventy,  eighty, 
ninety,  before  I  die  I  I  am  afraid  of  death — ^horribly  afraid  ! 
If  one  could  come  back  from  the  dead  and  tell  us  what  it  is 
like — where  all  this  that  aches  so  in  life,  heart,  fouI,  con- 
science, whatever  you  call  it,  goes  after  that  ghastly  change. 
But  they  never  do,  and  we  go  on  blindly,  and  then  all  at 
once  the  world  slips  from  under  us,  and  we  are — where  f  Of 
is  it  the  end,  and  are  we  blankness  and  nothingness,  as  be- 
fore we  were  born  ?  That  would  be  best.  I  do  not  think  1 
would  fear  that — much  I  " 

Vera  kneels  down  beside  her,  and  puts  her  arm  around 
her,  every  trace  of  color  leaving  her  face,  her  eyes  dark  and 
dilated  with  sudden  terror. 

"  Dora,"  fshe  says,  "  Dora,  what  ii^  this  ?  Are  you  in  pain  ? 
Does  your  heart  hurt  you  ?     Is  it  the  spasms  again  ?  " 

•*  Oh,  no  I "  Dora  answers,  wearily,  "  nothing  of  that. 
I  feel  well  enough ;  I  never  felt  so  well  or  happy  in  my  life 
as  I  did  to-night.  I  am  dead  tired  now,  that  is  all.  And 
that  picture  troubles  me  like  a  bid  dream.  And  your  song 
—  I  cannot  get  that  despairing  refrain  out  of  my  ears.  1 
wish  I  were  a  better  woman,  Vera,  I  wish  I  were  as  good^ 
as  wise  as  you " 

"  As  I  ?  "  V^ra  interrupts,  almost  with  a  cry  "  Oh,  Dot 
Dot,  as  1 1 " 


d  CkY  Iff  TME  NIGHT, 


Ml 


itinre— 
:  itanj 
ttt  yoi^ 

re,  rjid, 
ister,  10 


efs,  the 
to  grow 
.  eighty, 
yr  afraid ! 
^hat  it  it 
oul,  con- 
r  change, 
m  all  at 
irel    Of 
ss,  as  be* 
t  think  1 

around 
dark  and 

in  pain  ? 

of  that. 

my  life 
11.  And 
[our  song 
I  ears.  1 
|as  goodi 

>h,  Dot 


"You  never  carry  on  with  men  as  the  rest  of  us  do 
They  have  to  respect  you.  You  would  not  make  a  fool  of 
yourself  with  Fred  Howell  as  I  did,  come  what  might.  You 
go  to  church  every  Sunday,  rain  or  shine.  You  have  pious 
little  books,  and  you  read  them,  and  you  believe  in  God  and 
heaven,  and  all  good  things.  Vera,"  she  breaks  out,  and  it 
is  a  very  cry  of  passionate  pain,  of  a  soul  in  utter  darkness 
*'ij  there  a  Go  J,  and  must  1  answer  to  Him  for  the  life  1 
lead  ;  and  when  I  die  will  He  send  me  forever  to " 

But  Vera's  hand  is  over  her  moath.  Dora  is  certainly 
mad  to-night — her  husband's  cruelty  has  turned  her  bram  1 

"  Hush !  hush  1  hush  I "  she  exclaims,  in  horror.  "  Oh, 
my  Dot  I  my  Dot  I " 

What  shall  she  say  to  this  blind,  groping  soul,  lost  in  the 
chaos  of  unbelief?  What  she  does  say  is  in  a  broken  voice, 
full  of  pity  and  pathos  ;  Dora  is  too  worn  out  to  listen  to 
much.  But  she  speaks  of  the  infinite  goodness  and  love  of 
Him  whose  tender  mercies  are  over  all  His  works. 

"  If  you  would  but  pray,"  she  says,  imploringly,  "  it  is  all, 
it  is  everything,  the  *  kev  of  the  day  and  the  lock  of  the 
night.'  Only  this  morning  I  was  reading  a  book  of  Eastern 
travels,  and  the  writer  says  a  beautiful  thing.  He  is  speak- 
ing of  the  camels  so  heavily  laden  all  the  weary  day,  who 
kneel  at  its  close  to  be  unstrapped  and  unladen.  And  he 
says,  we,  like  the  camels,  kneel  down  at  night,  and  our  bur- 
dens are  lifted  from  us.  If  you  would  but  kneel,  Dot,  and 
believe  and  pray,  our  loving  Father,  who  hears  the  cry  of 
every  hopeless  heait  before  it  is  spoken,  would  help  you  to 
bear  it  all." 

Dora  dues  not  answer — she  lies  back  with  closed  eyes, 
white,  spent,  mute.  Vera  rises  and  resumes  her  work  ;  in  a 
few  minutes  an  embroidered  night-dress  has  replaced  the 
rainbow  costume  and  jewels,  and  Mrs.  Fanshawe  lies  down 
on  her  white  bed  with  a  long,  tired  sigh. 

''  It  is  good  to  rest,"  she  says  ;  "  I  hope  I  may  sleep  untO 
IS* 


$46 


A  CMY  IN  THE  SXCtiT, 


! 


oil  I', 


mm 


mM  I 


S||i/i|l 


i 


bunset  to-morraw.    See  thai  I  am  not  disturbed,  will  jeal 
r  want  to  sleep — to  sleep — to  sleep." 

The  words  trail  off  her.vily — the  last  these  pale  lipi  wiW 
ever  utter — and  then,  with  closed  eyes,  shs  lies  quite  ftiD 
among  the  pillows.  Vera  hastily  replaces  the  jewels  in  theit 
caskets,  and  arranges  them  on  the  table  near  the  bed,  flingi 
the  ball  costume  over  a  chair,  turns  down  the  gas  to  a  tiny 
pointy  kis'.es  her  sister  gently,  locks  the  door  on  the  inside, 
and  leaves  the  bedroom.  She  goes  by  way  of  tb«*  dressing- 
room  adjoining,  the  door  of  which  she  also  locks,  and  takei 
the  key.  F^lician  may  enter  in  the  morning,  according  to  • 
custom,  with  her  lady's  matutinal  chocolate,  and  Dora's  sleep 
must  not  be  disturbed. 

In  her  own  /ooiii,  she  throws  open  the  window,  folds  a 
wrap  about  her,  and  sits  down,  glad  to  be  alone.  She  feels 
no  deiire  for  sleep ;  her  mind  is  abnormally  wakeful  and 
active.  How  dark  it  is  I  and  how  heavily  it  rains  1  The 
scent  of  wei  grasses  and  dripping  trees  ascends ;  there  is 
not  a  ray  of  light  in  the  black  sky  ;  the  whole  world  seems 
blotted  out  in  darkness  and  wet,  and  she  the  only  living 
thing  left. 

Is  Dora  asleep,  she  wonders — poor,  poor  Dora  !  Thank 
Heaven,  it  is  not  yet  too  late  1  thank  Heaven,  there  is  yet 
time  for  faith  and  repentance,  and  the  beginning  of  a  better, 
less  worldly  life  I  It  has  been  a  great  and  silent  trouble  to  Ven 
during  the  past  iix  years,  the  cynical,  scoffing  unbelief  of  her 
sister,  so  hateful  in  a  man,  so  utterly  revolting  in  a  woman. 
But  it  is  not  too  late,  it  is  never  too  late  for  penitence  and 
amendment  this  side  of  eternity.  Then  her  thoughts  shift, 
tlie  face  of  Richard  Ffrench  rises  before  her  in  the  gloom,  so 
full  of  silent,  sai  reproach.  She  lovss  him,  and  she  has  sent 
him  from  her — oh,  foil}  beyond  belief !  and  yet  so  t'  lOrough* 
ly  the  folly  of  a  woroar .  "I  liked  that  Vera — I  love  this  1 " 
— the  bound  her  heart  gives  as  she  recalls  the  words  I  They 
are  trae,  or  he  would  not  speak  them.     No  seo^  of  loyaltf 


'  r 


A   CMY  /¥  THE  N/GMT, 


M7 


yon  I 

pi  wUX 

e  itm 

rt  theii 
,  flingi 
a  tiny 
insidCf 
essing- 
1  takes 
ling  tO' 
s  sleep 

folds  a 
le  feels 
ful  and 
1  The 
there  is 
seems 
iy  living 

Thai\k 
is  yet 
better, 
I  to  Vert 
k  of  her 
roman. 
Ice  and 
ts  shift, 
Dom,  so 
)a3  sent 
>rougte* 
this  I " 
They 
I  loyaltf 


to  her  would  make  him  tell  her  a  thing  that  is  Jilse.  He 
is  true  as  truth,  true  as  strel,  good,  brave,  a  noble  man.  And 
slie  has  sent  hitn  away !  — the  thought  stings  her  with  keenest 
pain  and  regret.  Oh,  th^s  pride  that  exacts  such  a  price  1 
Is  it  too  late  to  retract  ?  He  is  going  back  to  Cuba,  to  hii 
death  it  may  be ;  no  m?n  can  carry  a  charmed  life  forever, 
and  he  will  never  knov.r  she  loves  hmi.  No  I  a  sudden,  glad 
resolution  fills  her,  for  her,  no  more  than  for  Dot,  is  repen- 
tance too  late.  He  cannot  leave  St.  Ann's  before  seven  to- 
morrow— there  is  time,  and  to  spare,  yet.  She  will  write  to 
him,  and  tell  him  a!' — the  whole  truth ;  one  of  the  meii  shall 
itart  with  the  letter  at  six  o'clock,  and  give  it  to  hire  at  the 
station.  And  thin — a  smile  and  bl"sh  steal  over  he.'  face- 
he  will  /etum  to  her,  and  th:n 

She  leaves  the  window,  turns  up  the  gas,  sits  ('own,  and, 
without  wa't'rg  to  think,  commences  to  write.  The  wordi 
low  faste*"  than  she  can  set  them  down — not  /try  loving, 
perhaps ;  fhe  cannot  show  him  all  that  is  in  her  heart  just 
fet,  but  good  'vifely  words,  that  will  surely  bring  him.  It  is 
not  long ;  little  will  suffice ;  she  signs,  and  seals,  and  directs, 
rhen^  as  she  sits  looking  at  the  familiar  name,  a  thought 
strikes  her ;  it  is  the  second  time  in  her  life  she  has  written 
to  Richard  Ffrench.  She  recalls  that  other  letter,  and  laughs, 
in  the  new  hope  and  happiness  of  her  heart.  Was  there 
ever  such  another  absurd  epistle  penned  ?  No  wonder  Dot 
was  amused — poor  Dot !  who  declared  that  in  the  annals  of 
ferftimental  literature,  it  would  stand  alone.  She  is  well 
disposed  to  forgive  Dot  to-night  for  her  share  in  her  marriage. 
If  she  were  still  free  to  choose,  he  is  the  man  of  all  men  she 
would  give  herself  to.  Many  men  she  has  met,  known,  es- 
teemed, liked-  -lovea  not  «)ne  except  tliis  man  whose  wife 
•be  is,  and  him  she  loves  with  her  whole  heart. 

Five  strikes  somewhere  down  stairs.  She  is  not  sleepy, 
but  it  is  best  to  lie  down  -  1  rest.  So  in  a  few  momenti 
she  is  amid  her  pillows,  very  soon,  the  deep,  tranquil 


>,M 


'  <   ; 


I 


S4S 


A  CKY  i/r  TUB  If  I  ear 


f 


f 


'  :      ■       •Ml 

III 


lll'i  i 


ileep  of  first  youth  and  perfect  health  falli  up'^a  hec^  and  ihi 
■lumbers  quietly  as  a  little  child. 

What  was  that  I  She  sits  up  in  sudden  terror  in  the  dark* 
ness.  Was  it  a  cry — a  cry  for  help  ?  She  listens,  hei  heart 
beating  fast.  Dead  silence  reigns,  deep  darkness  is  every- 
where. Has  she  been  dreaming,  or  was  it  the  shriek  of  a 
night  bird,  the  scream  of  a  belated  gull  ?  No  second  sound 
follows,  and  yet,  how  like  a  cry  it  was,  a  human  cry,  of  fear» 
of  pain  1 

She  rises  hastily ;  ihe  must  make  sure ;  perhaps  Dot" 
she  dare  not  finish  the  sentence.  She  throws  on  a  dressing 
gown,  and  hurries  to  Dora's  room.  A  dim  light  burns  in  the 
corridor ;  she  inserts  the  key  softly  in  the  dressing-room  door, 
enters,  approaches  the  bedroom,  and  looks  in.  All  is  peace. 
The  gas  burns,  a  tiny  star  of  light ;  on  the  bed  Dora  lies, 
faintly  to  be  discerned,  quite  still,  sleeping  deeply. 

"  Thank  Heaven  !  "  Vera  breathes,  "  it  was  a  dream  or  a 
night  bird,  aftei'  all." 

Left  alone  Dora  Fanshawe  drops  asleep  almost  at  once — 
the  spent  sleep  of  utter  exhaustion.  The  loud  beat  of  the 
rain  on  the  windows  does  not  break  her  rest,  the  heavy 
surging  of  the  trees  is  unheard.  She  sleeps  heavily,  dream- 
lessly,  and  then,  without  sound  or  cause,  suddenly  awakes 
And  yet  there  is  a  sound  in  the  room,  a  sound  faint,  indeed, 
but  terrible,  the  sound  of  a  man  stealthily  opening  the  jewel- 
cases.  She  springs  up  in  bed,  and  a  shriek,  wild,  piercing 
long,  rings  through  the  house. 

He  turns  with  an  oath,  and  puts  his  hand  over  her  mouth. 
But  Dora  is  a  plucky  little  woman,  and  struggles  in  his  grasp 
like  a  tiger-cat. 

"  D you  !  "  he  says,  between  his  clenched  teeth,  '  I'D 

ihov)t  you  if  you  don't  be  still  1  " 

A  crape  mask  covers  his  face.  With  one  hand  ihe  tean 
It  off«  with  the  other  she  grasps  the  heavy  whiskers  he  weara. 


iihi 

dark- 
Ke&rt 
ivery- 
of  a 
lound 
:  fear» 

Oot— 
:ssing 
in  the 
I  door, 
peace, 
a  Uei, 

m  or  a 


nice — 
of  the 
heavy 
Ireatn- 
Iwakes 
[ndeedi 
jewcl- 
:rcing, 


A  CMY  IN  TUB  NtOtTT, 


549 


Their  eyei  meet — the  light  of  the  gas-jet  falls  fuU  ap\/ii  him 

— the  struggle  ceases — for  one  awful  instant  she  states  up  at 
him,  he  down  on  her.  Then  with  a  dull,  inarticulate  sound 
the  falls  back,  still  retaining  her  hold.  Kc  tears  hunself  free- 
violently,  and,  without  giving  her  a  secoi.d  glunce,  thrusts  the 
last  of  the  jewels  into  his  pockets,  unlocks  the  chainbei 
door,  and  flies.  He  is  out  in  the  |)itch  darkness  uf  the  wild 
wet  morning  before  Vera  looks  into  her  sister  s  room. 

And  Dora  lies  still  and  sleeps  on,  but  with  wide  open, 
glazing  eyes,  fixed  in  some  strong  horror.  She  lies  motion- 
less, and  the  open  eyes  staring  blanklv  at  the  ceihng  fluttef 
not,  nor  close.  She  has  her  wish ;  sne  will  sleep,  and  on 
this  earth  that  sleep  will  never  be  broken.  The  splendor 
and  the  glory  of  the  world  spread  at  her  feet  would  fail  to 
win  one  glance  of  gladness  from  those  sightless  eyes.  The 
mighty  problem  is  solved — of  Time  and  Eternity — the  sou3 
that  has  Hed  in  the  darkness  and  silence  of  the  night  haf 
looked  upon  the  holy  and  awful  face  of  God. 

The  hours  wear  on ;  inside  the  sleepers  sleep,  and  quiet 
reigns ;  outside  the  wind  veers,  and  drives  the  storm-clouo;* 
before  it ;  a  few  stars  palely  usher  in  the  dawn.  Sounds  of 
life  begin  in  the  house,  servants  still  sleepy  and  tired  drag 
themselves  down  stairs.  Scarlet  and  crimson  clouds  push 
away  with  rosy  hands  the  blackness,  and  presently  the  sun 
rises  like  the  smile  of  God  upon  the  w  rid.  But  Dora  Fan* 
■ha we  rises  not,  will  rise  no  more  ur4til  the  xesirrection  iaf> 


nouth. 
grasp 


tears 
Iwean. 


•■r. 


liQ 


m  ram  dead  mamd. 


CHAPTER  XII. 


IN  T(.E   DEAD   HAND. 


ill 


Nil: 


HF  first  gleam  of  that  jubilant  sunshine  awakei 
V^ra,  and  she  gets  up.  It  is  half-past  six  ;  pro- 
found quiet  reigns,  no  one  is  yet  stirring.  Hei 
letter  is  her  first  thought,  and  with  it  comes  a  second  that 
did  not  present  itself  last  night — none  of  the  men  are  yet 
jown,  coachman,  gardener,  stable-boys,  butler — how  then  ii 
the  to  send  it  ?  A  third  difficulty  presents  itself,  these  men- 
itervants  are  all  new — Fanshawe  retainers — who  know  noth- 
ing  of  the  Charlton  dynasty,  or  of  Captain  Dick.  The  re- 
sult is  her  letter  is  a  failure,  her  penitence  too  late,  it  can- 
not be  sent. 

An  intolerable  sense  of  annoyance  and  disappointment 
fills  her.  She  has  hoped  so  much  only  for  this.  The  fault 
is  all  her  own,  but  it  is  doubtful  if  that  knowledge  ever  made 
any  failure  the  easier  to  bear.  It  is  inevitable,  however ; 
the  letter  cannot  go. 

She  has  dressed  hastily,  and  stands  by  the  window  looking 
out  over  the  grounds,  intense  vexation  in  her  face.  No  one 
is  to  be  seen,  none  of  the  usual  morning  sounds  are  to  be 
heard,  although  far  upstairs  doors  and  windows  begin  to  be 
opened.  While  she  stands  and  looks,  a  man  suddenly  ap- 
pears, emerging  from  the  summer-house,  at  sight  of  whom 
■he  gives  a  great  and  sudden  start.  For,  extraordinary  to 
relate,  it  i^  Colonel  Ffrench  himself.  At  first  che  cannot 
believe  her  eyes,  but  they  are  far-sighted  and  seldom  deceive 
ner.  It  is  Colonel  Ffrench  himself,  walking  with  the  long, 
military  stride  she  knows  so  well,  carrying  himself  after  hii 
usual  resjlute  and  irect  fashion,  his  hat  pulled  well  over  hii 


Ii';!:;  t 


11:1 


iN  THE  DEAD  HAA^ 


%St 


nrakef 

;  pK>- 

Hei 
id  that 
le  yet 
then  ii 
e  men- 
ir  noth- 
["he  re- 
it  can- 

ntment 
e  fault 
r  made 
wever ; 

looking 
lo  one 
|e  to  be 

to  be 

^nly  ap- 
whom 
lary  to 
I cannot 
ieceive 
[e  long, 
fter  hii 
Lver  hif 


•fe* 


ejrei,  going  rapidly  toward  the  gates.  He  does  not  onc« 
look  back — if  he  does  he  must  see  her — b^jt  he  does  act 
He  has  not  gone  then,  after  all,  he  will  not  catch  the  early 
train,  she  will  be  in  time  perhaps  yet. 

Sudden  delight  takes  the  place  of  amaze,  to  give  way  to 
amaze  again.  Why  is  he  here  ?  Where  has  he  been  all 
night  ?  Surely  not  yonder  in  the  rain  ?  If  he  stayed  in  the 
summer-house  he  escaped  the  storm  of  course,  but  why  has 
he  stayed  ?  He  neither  fears  a  night  walk  nor  a  wetting. 
How  cruel  she  was,  how  inhospitably  cruel  to  let  him  go  as 
she  did,  to  turn  him  from  his  own  house.  For  his  right  to 
'Charlton  is  better  than  Dof  s,  in  justice,  if  not  in  law,  two 
•hings  by  no  means  synonymous.  How  keen  his  pain  and 
tisappointment  must  have  been,  how  bitter  his  thoughts 
there  in  the  darkness,  and  the  loneliness,  and  the  pelting 
storm,  while  they  danced  and  feasted  within.  And  he 
loves  her !  How  merciless  she  has  been,  how  merciless ! 
«nd  all  the  while  the  whole  world  is  not  half  so  much 
fo  her  as  he.  Her  eyes  fill  with  slow,  remorseful  tears,  a 
passion  of  tenderness  and  regret  sweeps  through  her.  She 
has  thought  Dot  crazy  last  night,  but  never  in  her  wildest 
aioments  has  poor  Dot  been  half  so  insane,  half  so  inconsis- 
tent as  she. 

That  reminds  her — she  must  go  to  Dot.     Colonel  Ffrencb 
cannot  leave  St  Ann's  now  before  five  in  the  afternoon.     A 
long  day  lies  before  her.     Just  at  present  her  duty  is  to  hei 
sister,  so  she  puts  her  own  solicitude  aside  and  hastens 
Dora's  chamber.     On  the  bed  Dora  lies  motioi  less,  sleepi 
Btill.     Closed  shutters  and  drawn  curtains  shut  out  the  s 
shine,  the  gas  yet  flickers  feebly,  and,  to  her  suifTise,  V 
sees  that  the  bedroom  door  is  ajar.     It  was  locked  on 
inside  when  she  quitted  the  room  at  half-past  four  this  mo 
ing.     She  sees  something  else — the  empty  and  rifled  je 
cases.     One  lies  on  the  floor,  two  others  on  tlie  table, 
all  eniptj  vm\  despoiled.     And  now,    in  great    and   sud 


I.  «;i 


Tt^. 


4 


i 


i'M 


m 


SSs 


iJf  THB  DEAD  HAND, 


cenTDr,  she  looks  again  at  the  bed.  Dora  is  there  — ) 
oh !  what  is  this  ?  The  rigid  face,  the  upturned,  staring, 
sightless,  glazed  eyes,  the  fallen  jaw,  the  ice-cold  hands.  Fot 
a  moment,  two,  three,  four,  she  stands  paralyzed,  strirl'en 
dumb  ;  then  a  shriek  pierces  the  air,  goes  through  the  house, 
another  and  another,  until  in  five  seconds  as  it  seeras»  the 
room  is  filled  with  frightened,  half-dressed  people.  GuestI 
and  servants  flock  in  terror, 

"  Oh  !  what  is  it  I  "  is  the  cry  on  every  side.  What  they 
eet  is  Mrs.  Fanshawe  lying  dead  on  her  bed,  and  her  sistei 
kneeling  beside  her,  clasping  her  hands,  frantic,  beside  her- 
self with  fright  and  grief. 

'*  Dot,  speak  to  me  !  Dot,  look  at  me  !  Dot,  my  sister,  it 
is  Vera !  Do  you  not  hear  ?  Oh  I  great  Heaven  I  no,  shr 
does  not  hear.  She  will  never  hear  1  She  is  dead  I  She  ii 
murdered  1  " 

She  throws  herself  upon  her,  she  gathers  her  in  her  arms, 
wild  with  the  shock,  the  horror  of  her  loss.  '*  She  is  mur- 
dered, she  is  nmrdered  !  "  she  cries  again  and  again  in  that 
piercing  voice,  and  at  the  dreadful  word  all  recoil. 

"  Murdered  !  "  pale  lips  echo,  and  terrified  eyes  meet  in 
dismay.  One  man  approaches  and  touches  Vera  gently  or 
the  shoulder. 

"  Miss  Martinez,  my  dear  Miss  Martinez,  be  calm.  Lei 
la?  see  your  sister ;  I  am  a  medical  man,  you  know.  She 
may  not  be  dead,  it  may  only  be  a  fainting  fit.  Do  let  me 
bok  at  her;  lay  her  down.  My  dear  Miss  Vera,  listen 
t^o  me. ' 

She  looks  up  at  him — a  look  of  agony  that  haunts  him  fot 
many  a  day,  a  lock  of  unutterable  horror  and  fear. 

**  She  is  dead, '  she  says  in  a  whisper,  "  she  is  dead. 
While  we  all  slept  she  has  been  robbed  and  murdered  1 " 
The  light  leaves  her  eyes  with  the  last  word,  her  arms  relai 
iheir  hold,  Dr.  Vanderhoff  catches  her  as  she  falls. 

"  Thank  Hearen !  she  has  fainted.     Here,  take  her  away 


-ye»— bol 

,  staring, 
ids.     Fot 

stri.?!'  en 
tie  house, 
lerns^  the 

Guesti 

liat  they 
her  sistef 
side  her- 

sister,  it 

I  no,  shr 
I    She  it 

ler  arms, 
i  is  mur- 
1  in  that 

meet  in 
[ently  op 

m.     Let 

»w.     She 

0  let  me 
If  listen 

1  him  fof 

is  dead 
deredl" 
ms  relai 

ler  away 


/-V  rUM  DMAD  SANIK 


oomebody  carries  V*.ro  - 
folio..     Re.to™,ive.  r/2;  Z  "l  T.  ""*•'"«  -»«' 
-mutes  as  dea*„ke  as  t^TJ^eS     F      '  ""  '"'  """^ 
derhoff  stands  high  in  his  nrn/-.?         .  For  i>v,i»-_I>,.  y^. 

Of  .urgcons  .oui'd  be  unav'^^r;  "  »"'«  '^""'^  •=""'«• 
told  hnn  as  much,  but  he  i,  h„     T \  ""  ^"'  S'^^e  h»» 

of  the  frightened  Uses  :e^lT.h° '"''"''''=''''•     ^  few 
fl"ng  wide,   the  glorious ToW  ,'°°™'  ""^  ''"'««"  "e 

floods  the  dead  C  L^^ed"  '""J'^'"  '"""^  *^«  """C 
sight  to  see.  '   ^  '^^•''  '"deepen  eye, ;  ,  grf^ 

He  rises  from  his  ho,^tt  task    ''T^^''-" 
over  those  stony  eyeballs  ^,^1"      ** '""'  '°  ='°»«  *«  Hd. 
fi%  few,  flashed  S!t  l„d  j";"'  '^  '^^  "-"  "S".  -  »- 

Physfcianofmany  yfars' stald.n  T"^'  ''■"  '"'  '»  '"'O  » 
Phleg.n  is  in  his'faL  l^dTone «' ^"V"  ""  '''''^---' 
last  three  year,  that  one  day  it  w  '  u"'  ''"'"'"  *■"  '«• 
«ooK  might  nave  done  it  «  "  H'''  ~™«  ^"  ^i-  A 
woman  I  "  *'  ""r  moment,     poor  littl- 

He  stands  looking  at  h 


'j  ^ 


I    i. 


'r 


•.  { 


354 


IN  THE  DEAD  HAND, 


t  t 


f  if!' 


**  She  spoke  of  robbery,  too/'  says  another ,  ^'  and  look 
here — IwA  at  these  empty  jewel-caskets.     Can  it  be——* 

"  And  look  at  the  awful  expression  of  her  face/'  exclainif 
a  third ;  "  as  if  her  last  look  in  life  had  becu  one  of  dread* 
fill  fright  or  pain.  Perhaps  robbery  and — ^and  murder  have 
been  done  after  all." 

"Not  murder/'  says  Dr.  Vanderhoff,  incisively.  "Mrt. 
Fanshawe  has  died  of  heart-disease.  Robbery  there  may 
possibly  have  been — not  murder." 

Strangely  enough  no  one  speaks  of  her  husband,  or  leemi 
to  think  of  him  in  this  appalling  hour.  The  infelicity  of  the 
Fanshawes  is  well  known,  the  notorious  neglect  of  the  hus- 
band has  become  an  accepted  fact.  Silence  falls  on  all,  and 
ia  that  silence,  Vera,  with  two  or  three  ladies,  re-eficen  the 
^oom.  All  make  way ;  her  face  is  white  to  deathliness, 
her  eyes  all  wild  and  black.  She  comes  forward  as  if  she 
faw  no  one,  and  kneels  beside  the  bed.  So  kneeling,  with- 
out  a  word,  she  looks  on  the  face  of  the  dead. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Vera,"  says  Dr.  Vanderhoff.  There  if 
feeling  in  his  voice :  this  is  outside  the  profession.     "  My 

dear  Miss  Vera "  and  here  he  stops  and  taps  his  gold 

eye-glass  against  his  palm.  It  is  not  so  easy  to  hnr!  words 
foi  the  shock  of  a  sorrow  like  this. 

She  does  not  weep,  she  is  strangely,  stonily  still ;  she 
looks  up  at  him,  and  her  voice  whexi  she  speaks,  though 
hoarse  and  hurried,  has  no  trace  of  hy!»''erics  or  tears. 

**She  has  been  robbed,"  she  says,  and  poiiits  to  the 
empty  jewel-cases,  "  and  murdered  while  we  all  slept." 

**  Not  murdered,  my  dear  child  ;  do  not  think  anything  so 
dreadful.  Your  poor  sister  has  gone,  as  I  knew  she  one  day 
must  go,  of  heart-disease.  It  is  a  shock,  but  it  should  not 
be  a  surprise.  She  was  liable  at  any  time.  Her  death  wat 
instantaneois  and  free  from  pain." 

"  She  has  been  murdered,"  Vera  repeats ;  "  it  i«  the  same 
Ihing.     She  was  robbed,  and  the  terror  of  seeing  liie  robhei 


tH  TOM  MJLD  MdSP. 


I» 


I  look 

• 

clainif 
dreitfV 
f  bavi 

•«Mn. 

re  may 

r  seems 

^  of  the 
thchu»- 
til,  and 
ttcft  the 
.thlinesi, 
as  if  the 
ng,  frith- 

[There  ii 
*«My 

his  gold 
I*,  words 

^liU;  she 
though 

ts< 

to   the 

^pt." 

rthing  so 

one  day 

)uld  not 

leath  wai 

Ithcsamc 
»e  robbei 


killed  hev.    If  he  had  shot  her  ht  codd  not  have  dahi  h«i 
more  sorely.' 

**  My  dear  young  lady—" 

*' There  are  the  empty  cases,*  she  cries,  passionately; 
**  Ihcy  were  filled  this  morning  when  I  left  her.  They  were 
worth  over  ten  thousand  dollars.  And  look  here,  look  at 
this." 

For  the  first  time  she  sees  the  crape,  crushed  into  a  ball 
in  her  sister's  hand.  Gently  she  disengages  it,  quivering 
through  all  her  frame  as  she  feels  the  icy  touch.  She  holds 
it  up. 

'*  Look  1  "  she  says,  in  a  stifled  voice.  He  takes  it  in  si- 
lence. It  seems  a  clear  case,  there  has  been  a  struggle^ 
uid  she  has  torn  this  from  the  face  of  the  robber.  It  if  a 
mask,  with  holes  for  the  eyes  and  mouth. 

"The  other  hand  is  closed  too,"  says  Dr.  Vanderhol^ 
in  a  subdued  tone. 

She  takes  it.  <'  Oh  !  my  little  Dot !  my  little  Dot  P  she 
says,  and  breaks  down.  It  is  but  for  an  instant ;  she  lifts 
her  pallid  face  and  slowly  and  with  difficulty  separates  the 
stiffened  fingers.  "  Oh  I  look !  look  I "  she  cries  out,  *'  see 
this.     Oh  !  my  little  love  !  my  little  love  1 " 

It  is  a  sight  that  sends  a  thrill  through  every  heart ;  a 
sight  that  shows  while  they  all  slept  poor  little  Dora  has 
fought  for  her  life.  And  yet  it  is  only  a  little  luft  of  hair, 
torn  from  the  head  or  beard  of  the  burglar. 

"Let  me  secure  this,"  says  Dr.  Vanderhoflf;  "it  may  be 
necesisary." 

Vera  shrinks  back  and  covers  her  face,  trembling  all  over. 
Oh  1  Dora  1  Dora  !  Oh  !  the  agony  that  must  ha«'e  been 
hers  in  that  gfiastly  struggle,  face  to  face  with  death— that 
dark  death  she  feared  so  much.  And  she,  tbe  sister  who 
loved  her,  slept  through  it  all.  There  flashes  upon  her  the 
memory  of  that  cry  in  the  night.  Dora's  death-cry.  While 
sK*  stood  in   yonder  doorway,  whi^j  she  fancied  sne  slep^ 


iff 


/Jf  TBTM  DEAD  MdkJnK 


Dor«4  wa»  already  dying  or  dead.     She  bre  Jci  out  Into  wfld 

weeping,  frantic  hysterical  weeping,  all  unlike  Verm,    Oh  I 
my  sister  1  my  sister  !  my  sister  1 "  ii  her  cry. 

And  meantime  Dr.  Vanderhoflf  has  carefully  gathered  -p 
every  hair  from  the  palm  of  the  dead  hand.  The  small  pale 
fingers  have  clenched  over  them,  as  if  even  in  deatn  unwil 
ing  to  let  them  go.  He  puts  up  his  glass  to  inspect  hit 
prize  ;  the  last  doubt  is  removed.  Violence  has  been  here, 
robbery  has  been  done,  the  shock  has  caused  death.  The 
others  crowd  about  him  and  look  with  intense,  morbid  in* 
terest.  The  hair  is  short,  some  of  the  longest  perhaps  three 
inches,  and  pale-brown  or  chestnut  in  color. 

"Tom  from  a  man's  beard,"  says  the  doctor,  **not  hii 
tiead.  There  is  a  marked  difiference  in  the  texture.  Pooi 
little  woman  ! " 

And  now  the  shock  is  over,  and  people  come  back  to  the 
inevitable  "  What  next  ? "  What  next  is  to  inform  the 
authorities ;  notify  the  coroner.  There  must  be  an  inquest, 
he  supposes,  Dr.  Vanderhoff  suggests,  vrith  a  deprecating 
shrug  and  pitjring  look  at  Vera.  And  they  must  get  on  the 
track  of  the  burglar ;  he  is  half  way  back  to  New  York  by  this 
time,  no  doubt.  It  seems  clear  enough  to  his  mind.  It  is 
not  the  work  of  a  local  thief;  some  tramp  has  given  informa- 
tion to  the  skilled  city  fraternity  of  the  jimmy  and  skeleton* 
key,  and  one  or  more  have  lain  in  waiting  for  these  valuable 
Jewels.  How  rash  not  to  have  had  the  constabulary  on  guard, 
or  so  much  as  a  safe  in  the  house.     But  it  is  so  like  a  lady. 

*'  Poor  little  thing,"  says  the  physician,  for  the  thiid  time, 
*'  I  never  taw  her  look  so  pretty,  or  seem  in  such  high 
•pirits  as  last  night.  Those  unlucky  diamonds,  too ;  I 
remember  being  struck  by  them  at  the  time.  That  fellow,  her 
husband,"  says  Dr.  Vanderhoff,  lowering  his  tone,  "  what 
about  him  ?  Where  is  he  ?  He  ought  to  be  apprised,  1  sup 
pose.  Not  that  it  matters  much ;  a  worthless  vagaboiuf*  Wha 
knows  his  addr«si  ?  " 


Kt-  ^^ 


I 


I  !■ 


intoiHU 
ra.    Ohl 

here/i  -p 
nail  paiff 
tn  acwil 
spect  hit 
sen  here, 
th.  The 
orbid  in* 
aps  three 

''not  hii 
5.     Poor 

:k  to  the 
orm   the 

inquest, 
>recating 
^t  on  the 
Ic  by  this 
i.  It  is 
informa- 
keleton- 
valuable 
n  guard, 

lady, 
id  time, 
ch  hi^h 

too;  I 
low,  hef 

"  what 
if  1  f up 
*,  Wha 


^  one  knows  it.    Mis<»  nr-w; 

m  his  absence  a*  th^  ^u 

Jr.  and  poo.  M..  c::::fz^2:^  «-<»  or  „,»  r.„. 

<t  upon  „.^self  to  direct  proc-e2!lr    *^^"' ^  'Wl  take 
-y  «an.  do  you  go  to  thev^lCfL       I  """""''■     «"«. 
«torney  here;  lole  no  tLTTT     ^  ''"•  f^^'hawe' 
•ffa»  mil,  your  leading  lo^l'  „       f  '"f°"nation  of  this  .ad 
'-'-.  I  think  ,  ,;„  b'e  bes u'Cth'     '"^°"'  ""^  ''- 
•ervant,  will  wish  to  prepare  o.,  ,  "^"^ '  ">«  *<""«- 

"r  r-  this  poo^r  S  IrXL'^-'^  -'-     Ana 

iiut  they  cannot;  no  one  r^i 
«nd  leave  her.     It  i,  ^l^X^^  -™-e  Vera,  and  they  go 
perse  to  talk  over,  in  excit^H     M  '  ^"^  ""  8""'»  AV 

•"<»  »-hat  is  to  be  done  "S  t:r'  "'^'^  "'"'"  '^°- 
to-morrow  they  must  depart  rl  i  ^^'  "'  "'^*  ''J'  '^e  tr«, 
of  feasting  has  Lcomet  ou'e  of  d  T  ^l'^'  ''°'»  "  """^ 
must  leave  it.     Thev  can  I        u^■^^  *"''  ">ourning ;  thev 

Martine.  wiU  preferToT: at;"^^  T  '''"  ''"^  ^^ 
«utno  doubt  Mrs    Fan.hn       \  "'''at  a  blow  for  her 

-<ied  for  her  well,  ,eff  h  ,  eTer  ,r  '"''^  '"  ^"  -'l  P- 
offher  profligate  husb  „d  wi  h  S'  """'y,  ''^^'y-  -d  cut 
«ght,  the  wretch,  cry  the  lI2,     ,        *■     ^'  "'"  "='^'  W" 
•-.^t  "ight.     He  i    in  Ne;  '^  ""'°  *"«  ''-rdest  on  Dor, 
"-;.  of  that  horrid  ^10^7.  '  "°  '^°'""'  ">«  ^O'c  Wend 



^xt^r^owTrsr^^  r «-  •"• — 

"here  literally  nothing  happen  sT  ^'^  ^r"'  *  P'-^ 
-rd  Portuguese  seamfn  beca,n„  thf  %  f'"'  '""'  """""^ 
"«th   has  ever  been   heLd  of     vf  ^  ''''  '"'^''  "'  "='en. 


!l 


;;h- 


I ' 


m  1 


ly 


^:(*:  ■•  i 


b::^.I 


.i--  y-| 


3St 


/^  TNM  DEAD  KANIk 


murder  it  cnprecedented.  All  the  circumstance*  tend  to 
lend  romantic  interest  and  gloom  to  thii  tragedy.  The  bril* 
liant  birthday  ball,  the  awful  ending. 

The  authorities  cannot  believe  their  responsible  ears;  thf 
coroner — people  have  almost  forgotten  that  potentate  exiiti 
•^stands  aghast.  He  awakes  to  find  sudden  and  unwelcome 
gieatness  tiirust  iroon  hi'i. 

People  come  v  1 1  .^  althy  steps  into  the  darkened  room 
where  the  pale  lii; .  I  r  of  Charlton  lies,  and  look  with 
bated  breath  into  the  rigid  •'  **»  and  staring  eyes  that  no  hand 
is  strong  enough  to  close,  at  the  silent  black  figure  sitting 
motionless  beside  it,  and  steal  unconsciously  away.  Vera 
sees  none  of  them,  she  sits  there  in  stupor,  her  hands  locked 
together,  her  eyes  on  the  face  of  her  sister.  She  "  cannct 
wake  her  dead  ;  "  it  is  not  her  Dot  that  lies  here,  it  is  some 
white,  mute  thing,  some  pale,  dreadful  image,  that  fascinates 
her,  and  that  she  cannot  leave.  Absolutely  her  mind  seems 
I'O  wander  sometimes.  It  is  not  Dot,  tliis  ghastly  face  and 
rigid  form.  Dora  dead  I — Dora,  who  was  the  gayest  where 
all  was  gay  only  a  few  hours  ago  ;  whom  she  undressed  anc^ 
kissed  good-night  such  a  little  time  back;  whose  sleep) 
words  still  sound  in  her  ears.  Why,  no,  it  is  not  Dot !  Da 
dead  !  How  strangely  that  sounds  1  She  puts  her  hand  t< 
her  head  in  a  dazed  sort  of  way ;  her  thoughts  seem  all  dis 
connected,  everything  about  her  unreal.  People  touch  her, 
speak  to  her ;  she  never  knows  who,  nor  what  they  say. 
Some  one — Harriet — presses  her  to  eat,  and  she  looks  z% 
her  in  dismay.  Eat  1  and  this  white,  solemn  wonder  lying 
here  1 — this  face  of  stone  that  they  say  is  Dot !  Sometimes 
she  turns  two  dull,  half-sightless  eyes  across  to  where  the 
gloomy  p'rture  hangs,  and  at  last  a  resentful  feeling — the 
first  feeling  of  any  kind  she  is  conscious  of  in  her  numbness 
*-rises  within  her.  It  has  had  something  to  do  with  this 
dreadful  thing  that  has  fallen  upon  her.  *<  Take  it  away  !  " 
the  says,  angrily,  to  Harriet,  who  hovers  about  her  constantlj. 


IN  THE  DEAD  HAND. 


359 


fod  to 

rs;  thf 

exiiti 

elcom« 

d  room 
jk  with 
lo  hand 
I  sitting 
.     Vera 
}  locked 
*  cannct 
is  some 
tscinates 
id  seems 
ice  and 
it  where 
>sed  anc" 
;  sleep) 
it!  Da 
hand  t( 
all  dis 
,ch  her, 
|hey  say. 
looks  al 
er  lying 
etimet 
ere  the 
ig—the 
mbnest 
ith  thii 
way  I " 
stantly. 


I  hate  it !-- so  did  she  !  It  frightened  her  last  r  ight.  Take 
t  away  I" 

Without  a  word,  Harriet  removes  the  picture,  and  the 
dreary  gaze  goes  back  to  the  dead. 

"  If  she  would  only  cry  a  spell  1 "  said  Harriet,  crying 
copiously  herself^  "  'twould  do  her  a  sight  o'  good.  It'i  a 
drefful  thing  to  see  her  a-settin'  like  that.  I  declaie  it  skeefi 
me,  and  I  ain't  of  the  easy  skeert  kind  nuther." 

£arly  in  the  afternoon  a  visitor  comes,  whom  Harriet  re- 
ceives with  distinction.  After  a  moment's  •  .»,*  '>f;red  coUo^ 
quy,  she  goes  up  to  the  dark  room  with  a  ^iin  er  of  new 
hope.  "If  any  one  can  perk  her  up,  *t  lu  be  iiim.  She 
allers  set  a  sight  o'  store  by  Captain  DicK/'  -Vj  thinks. 

She  bends  above  l\t:r  with  wonderful  ^entieness  for  grim 
old  Harriet. 

"  Miss  Vera,  honey,  here's  Captain  Dick,  your  own  Cajv 
tain  Dick,  deary,  and  he  wants  to  see  you.  Won't  you  com* 
down  to  him  just  a  minute  ?  " 

Vera  looks  up,  with  a  certain  angry  impatience  that  ii 
singularly  unlike  her.  Even  this  name  is  powerless  to  move 
her. 

"  I  want  to  stay  here.  Do  let  me  alone.  So  many  peo- 
pie  come  !  I  wish  they  would  not.  Why  can't  I  be  quiet  ? 
Go  away,  Harriet  I  " 

"  But,  lovey,  Captain  Dick '' 

"  Oh  1  what  does  he  want  ?  I  thought  he  was  gone.  I 
can't  go.  I  don't  want  to  talk.  Do  leave  me  alone— do- 
do 1" 

It  is  uf  no  use ;  nothing  can  arouse  her,  and  Harriet  goes. 
Colone*  Ffrench  listens,  profound  trouble  and  anxiety  on  hit 
Ikce. 

"  Poor  child !  "  he  says.  "  No  wonder  she  is  stunned.  J 
■hall  remain,  Harriet,  until  the  end.  Do  what  you  can  fof 
her — ^poor  child,  poor  child  I  " 

Night  doses  over  the  gloomy  house,  wears  away,  and  a  sec- 


\m\ 


i" 


«    \ 


t'\  :' 


if! 


ri:i: 


I'  £?:  r  ! 


.kS' 


m 


Ei^M 


360 


/V  rffff  DMA/)  HAND, 


ond  morning  dawns.  There  is  little  change  iu  Vera.  The^ 
cani»3t  force  her  awa>  but  she  has  fallen  heavily  and  exhanst 
edly  asleep  at  her  post,  and  Dr.  Vanderhoff  lifts  her  and  lays 
her  on  her  bed.  The  guests  go,  glad  to  be  gone.  An  officei 
or  two  are  down  from  the  city,  and  search  has  begun  for  the 
burglar.  As  yet  little  trace  has  been  found.  In  the  soft 
gravel  and  clay  footpiints  have  been  discovered,  but  so 
many  have  come  and  gone  that  that  amounts  to  little.  A 
man  has  spent  the  night  in  the  summer-house,  for  the  stable- 
boy,  looking  out  about  seven  o'clock,  from  his  attic  windor, 
saw  him  hastily  depart.  But  burglars  do  not,  as  a  rule,  foi 
fear  of  a  wet  jacket,  take  shelter  in  the  grounds  of  the  plac? 
they  have  robbed.  Still  a  note  is  made  of  it,  the  summer 
house  searched,  and  nothing  found  The  inquest  is  to  be 
on  the  third  day ;  something  will  come  to  light  then.  The 
robbery  and  the  death,  alone,  are  talked  of  everywhere.  Who 
is  to  inherit  Mrs.  Fanshawe's  fortune  ? 

And  then  it  leaks  out — no  one  knows  \  ow — that  the  late 
Mr.  Charlton's  step-son,  Richard  Ffrench,  ii  sole  heir.  Some 
one  has  seen  him,  and  tells  some  one  else.  Richard  Ffrench 
is  here,  and  for  the  first  time  in  six  years.  What  is  he  doing 
hero  ?  ^Q  one  knows.  Is  he — was  he — a  friend  of  Mrs. 
.Vansiiawe  ?  Not  likely,  or  he  would  have  been  at  the 
house.  But  he  was  at  the  house,  late  last  night,  though  he 
was  not  at  the  ball.  How  this  last  fact  gets  wind  it  is  im- 
possible to  say — you  might  as  well  hope  to  wring  secrets 
hem.  the  tomb  as  from  Harriet,  but  get  wind  it  does.  The 
very  birds  of  the  air  seem  to  carry  news  to-day.  He  was  at 
the  house  last  night  in  secret  and  uninvited.  He  and  Mrs 
Fanshawe  were  not  good  friends.  He  is  the  heir — sole  heir, 
tht  only  one  to  profit  by  her  death  I  Men  look  at  one 
another.  Men  stare  at  him  in  the  street  as  he  passes  by. 
Silence  falls  on  talkative  groups  when  he  appears.  Suspicion 
— that  most  awful  thing  that  can  look  out  of  human  eyes — 
suspicion  looks  at  him  cit  of  all  the  eyes  he  meets.     lo 


a.    1V> 

1  exh^iust 
'  and  layi 
^n  officei 
n  for  th« 

the  soft 
but  so 
tie.      A 
e  stable- 
windor, 
rule,  foi 
iie  plac9 
mmraer 
is  to  be 
1.     The 
e.   Who 

the  iate 

Some 

Ffrench 

2  doing 
•f  Mrs. 
at  the 
ugh  he 

is  itu- 
secrets 
The 
was  at 
1  Mrs 
e  heir, 
Lt   one 
es  by. 
picion 
5ye« — 
I.     In 


^tiAt  manner  the  truth  comet  to  ».,m  h  •    ,« 
«  docs  come  in  a  slow  creTnll  "  ^'®'"^*  ^^  ^c"»  buf 

^'-  cold.     It  i,  not  tl;  SofT'  *"'  •'°^^'  ''^'^  ^i 
never  known  ;  it  is  sonVt Sng  I'Sf     '^"-"''^^  '^  ^ 
biy  more  terrible.     It  takes  .n  T\r       *"'''"'  *"^  un.peaka- 
•^  the  birds  sing  it--it  o.n  .    ^''"^^^«^  ^he  breeze  carri^ 
And  on  the  ev^4  ^.^^f;:^-  ^^^  corner  of  St.  A^" 

PJ-e  and  is  breatL  „X  eTo^H^"  "  "^^'"  ^^^-^^-'' 

a^idacious  tale-bearer  n.ay  be  is  unl      '"''  "^^^     ^<>  ^h. 

"^  wrathfal  scorn  must  hL  ann-hiltrTr ''*"^^''  «^--« 

»he  sets  her  thin  lins  anrl  I       u        '''^  ^""  ^°'e^e^.      But 

-ust  know  this.       "^   *"^  "'*^^'^^  ^^-'-^ht   to  Vera.     sZ 

"  Miss  Vera  "  sav/J  ^^''  *^^ne  I 

Xou.se.f  and  H^cr^   "e!"n\rrjr ^**  ^°"  -'  — 
here,  and "  "*  ""«•      Captain  Ffrench  if 

''e  had  gone."  ^  "o  ^o"  torment  me?    I  bought 

^-you  h.ve„ore:^;.,t;rrruS'";r;f  '"^  "^'^ 

W  thing  ,s  goin'  about  and  v^..-  ''"  y°"  »  hor- 

>«-ld  take  on  ever  sa  The^  mi:.  «°'  '°  "^^  ''  ^  r°- 
"l'.  said  and  done,  and  a  live  husband  •'°"  '""''""'^  '^''^ 
«".  I  reckon,  any  aay.  cllin  n  u  •'  "'°'"'°  *  <^«d  «* 
»e,  Miss  Vera-Lte^  to  m'e-  the  fl"  '"''  ''""-'-ka. 
-JJ;^f.at.okein„^---J-^n.„^, 


u, 


m  rmM  dark  aovM, 


CHAPTER  XIIL 


IN  THB   DAlLk   HOUR. 


r  ^s  the  third  day,  and  the  inquest  ii  about  to  l)egiiL 
Very  many  people  are  present — it  is  romoreil  that 
Miss  Martinez  is  to  testify,  and  that  the  suspected 
man  will  be  there.  It  \'a  rumored,  too,  that  Colonel  Ffrench 
and  Miss  Martinez  are  more  to  each  other  than  the  world 
knows,  and  that  it  was  to  see  her  he  visited  Charlton  on  the 
night  of  the  robbery.  The  interest  in  the  tragedy  deepenf 
with  every  hour.  The  military  rank  and  rqmantic  history  of 
the  dashing  soldier  of  fortune  intensify  it ;  the  rumor  that  he 
is  positively  the  husband  of  Miss  Martinez,  and  has  been  50 
for  many  years,  adds  a  zest  beyond  belief.  It  will  be  curious 
to  see  them  together — to  hear  her  testify  against  him,  it  may 
be.  She  is  hardly  likely  to  spare  a  husband  she  will  not  live 
with,  where  a  sister,  beloved  beyond  the  love  of  sisters,  i» 
roncerned.  Mr.  Dane  Fanshawe  has  not  yet  been  notified 
of  his  bereavement.  Vera  does  not  know  his  address,  it  ap 
pears,  and  fires  up  with  sudden  passion  at  the  bare  mentioi. 
of  his  name. 

"  It  is  his  fault !  "  she  cries  out,  vehemently — "  it  is  hif 
doing  .  If  he  had  been  here,  it  would  never  have  happened  I  " 
More  than  this  she  declines  to  say.  "  I  hate  him ! "  she 
breaks  torth,  when  the  question  is  pressed — "  I  never  want 
to  see  his  face  or  hear  his  name  I  I  would  not  tell  you  if  J 
knew]" 

So  Mr.  Fanshawe  \t  still  abstnt,  and  people  are  a  little 
ihocked  at  Miss  Maninez's  vehemence.  It  is  tXl  the  more 
striking  as  her  general  manner  is  all  that  there  is  of  higb-bred 
repose.    Still  she  is  perhaps  excusable,  poor  thing  ;  she  has 


rr-  jpr:! 


t  toliegin. 
nored  that 
suspected 
el  Ffrench 
the  world 
>n  on  the 
Y  deepeni 
history  of 
or  that  ho 
s  been  %o 
)e  curious 
tn,  it  may 
11  not  live 
sisters,  ia 
n  notified 
?ss,  it  ap 
!  mentioi. 

It  is  his 
pened ! " 
m ! "  she 
iver  want 
1  you  if  J 

>  a  little 

he  more 

ligb-bred 

she  ha? 


poo,  M„.  i.a„sha.e  hlf btnl,"'!*^? "'  '"  '^'^  "»"*  ««« 
•ingular  will  that  of  old  Mr  rh    u       •"'  '°  *"'•    What  . 
how  infatuated  he  wa    .bo:,  n     °"  '' '    ^'"^  '"'MerL 
Wck  in  those  days,  Lt^'  '"^''l  ""^  how  y^  ,^^  ^ 
•v«y.hi„g,    Humph  rrte  ^"s        "''  '"''^■"*  '-"en., 
nously-it  is  hoped  he  2 It  T"'"'  '"''  '°°''  «  «»  « 
that  fata/  night,  from  the  1  it  ^ '""""'  f"  every  h„„^ 
"ntil  after  the  discove     i'Mrs  .Ch'  "  "  *'''"  *'"''«^ 
,   The  jury  and  coron;,  Uke  V        r*^  '°°™ 
portable;  they  are  ms^  gtmleme?     ?'  '°°'""«  '"^-- 
known  and  liked  Dick  FfJnT       '  •""''   ">«  <=°™n«  /«, 
Charlton.     The  offi  "itd:!;^,""?  ""  ""'  «=«"«  ^ 
constabulary,  are  also  present     Th       '  ^°"^'  '""^  '"e  local 
the  long  ballroom  ^.hereX  Lulst'  ZT/  "  S'^'"'  "  ««• 
•bout  curiou,,^.     J,  „^^  „  th"s  r<^m 'f "  /^"^ ^« «"«• 
last  hours  of  her  life    Th         •  "  **  ''^"ced  away  th. 

a  .iance  of  deat^Seei^rdrdluTtfl  ''"'""■•  *'' - 
gra.e -^ue-s  last  act  a  crazy  co51''r/°  down  to  the 
costly,  silver-mounted,   satilhn 'd  "^  t    "  ;iP '''''■'^' '■■•  he* 
race  of  marble  and  frozen  etanT  hi '      "'  ""'   "'"' 
And  mto  the  long,  thronged  aoLl!    ,  «,    '  "°'  ""'I''  "ot 
presently  and  there  is  a  flu«er  a  t    ^ut  **""""  '^°»e' 
every  eye  turns  upon  her  '"'"'■''-'' '  ''™™  »".  and 

thin  and  h.  big  L'ck  i^eltoSml ::;,  ,.f  <>-  ^^own 

1  an:  glad  you  are  her«» »»  «k- 
of  you  to  stay."  ''    »"» '"r^  sfeadfly.     "iiigkiBd 

,^  ^'".'t  ^nTrhl^tntr;*'  '^'  «"^  '"^^ 
It  go  extends,  and  doeg  nc*  quickly  I«( 


3<H 


ai  THK  DAKK  BOUM. 


1,t       '■ 


Greedily  the  aowd  strain  eyes  to  see,  and  tars  to  listen, 
rhey  are  friends  then,  these  two,  after  all.  But  Richard 
Ffrench  understands — she  has  heard  the  truth  the  suspicicni 
afloat  have  reached  her.  This  is  her  vindication.  It  is  the 
same  true,  brave  instinct  that  sent  her  to  his  side  that  morn- 
ing at  Sliaddeck  Light,  with  her  head  thrown  back,  her  eyu 
dashing,  and  her  detiant  **  Captain  Dick  is  not  to  blame  t " 

God  bless  her  I  she  is  the  same  dear  little  Vera  after 
all! 

Miss  Martinez  is  giving  her  testimony  with  wonderful  clear 
ness  and  conciseness,  considering  the  effort  it  cost  her  to  be 
here  at  all.  Harriet's  words  have  roused  her,  thoroughly 
and  effectually  ;  she  will  relapse  into  stupor  no  more.  To 
suspect  Richard  Ffrench  of  so  ignoble  a  crime  !  of  so  dastardly 
a  deed  I  Richard  Ffrench,  brave  as  his  namesake  of  old, 
without  fear  and  without  reproach,  to  steal  in,  and  rob  a 
woman  1  How  dare  they !  Her  splendid  eyes  blaze  on 
ther;  people — if  looks  were  lightning  it  would  go  ill  with 
■ome  of  the  St.  Ann's  gossips.  She  tells  her  story  without 
breaking  down  once,  and  is  allowed  to  depart.  On  her  way 
out  she  turns  to  Colonel  Ffrench  again. 

"  Come  back  this  evening,"  she  says,  "  it  is  so  lonely ; " 
her  lip  quivers,     "  Come  and  share  my  watch — my  last." 

*^  I  will  come,"  he  answers,  more  moved  than  he  dare 
show,  aiid  he  clasps  her  hand  once  more  a  moment,  and  sees 
her  go. 

Dr.  Vanderhoff  gives  his  testimony — he  is  positive  no 
violence  has  been  used  Mrs.  Fanshawe  died  of  heart- 
disease.  The  shock  of  seeing  the  robber,  and  struggling 
mth  him,  as  she  evidently  did,  was  the  immediate  cause, 
but  by  any  act  of  violence  on  his  part — no.  The  hair  and 
crape  are  produced ;  they  go  to  prove  that  the  thief  was 
masked,  and  wore  whiskers,  eitner  real  or  false.  All  eyet 
at  this  point,  turn  instinctively  to  the  Cuban  cdonel,  sitting 
with  foldf^d  arms,  and  coldly  resolute  face.     Fie  wears  no 


h  ^  \i,- 


IS  TBR  DARK  HOVK. 


38S 


Lo  listen. 
:  Richard 
uspicicni 
It  is  the 
lat  morn- 
her  eyti 
lamel" 
rera  aftf^i 

rful  clear 
her  to  be 
horoughly 
iiore.     To 
3  dastardly 
ke  of  old, 
and  rob  a 
;  blaze  on 
go  ill  with 
ry  without 
n  her  way 

lonely ; " 

last." 
,n  he  dare 
it,  and  seci 

ositive  no 

of  heart- 
struggling 
ite  cause, 

hair  and 
1  thief  was 

All  eyes 
|iel,  sittiiig 

wears  no 


whisketa  or  beard,  a  heavy,  dark  lustache  a.'one  stades  his 
mouth,  but  does  aot  conceal  its  fine,  determined  contour, 
nor  the  shapsly,  well-rounded,  obstinate  chin.  A  man 
whose  reputation  is  not  lightly  to  be  trilled  with  ;  a  man  not 
to  be  too  quickly  or  easily  accused ;  a  man  who  knows  how 
to  defend  his  own  honor  and  good  name,  or  that  mouth  anvl 
clin,  those  dark,  determined  eyes,  belie  him. 

Dr.  Vanderhoff  goes,  and  the  servants  are  examined. 
Have  any  of  them  seen  tramps  or  suspicious  characters  lurk- 
ing about  lately  ?  And  then  it  comes  out  that  the  stable-boy 
has.  Johnny,  the  stable-boy,  appears,  looking  frightened 
and  irresolute.  He  stammers  a  great  deal,  and  what  he  has 
to  say  is  not  easily  got  at.  Got  at,  however,  it  amounts  to 
this — at  seven  on  the  morning  of  the  death,  he  baw  a  man 
coming  out  of  the  summer-house  in  the  grounds,  and  hurry- 
ing away  toward  the  gates.  Did  he  know  the  man  ?  No, 
Johnny  does  not  know  him,  but — more  frightened  than  be* 
lore — he  breaks  oflf,  and  looks  askance  at  Colonel  Ffrench. 

"  'Twas  him  /"  Johnny  says,  with  a  burst. 

Then  there  is  a  thrill,  and  a  hard-drawn  breath,  and  a  sen 
sation  through  the  crowd,  if  you  like  1     And  in  the  midst  of 
it  Colonel  Ffrench  rises,  as  calm  as  he  is  wont  to  be  when 
he  leads  his  men  to  the  hottest  of  the  hght,  but  perhaps  • 
trifle  more  pale. 

"  The  lad  is  quite  right,"  he  says,  "it  was  I  he  saw.  I 
left  the  summer-house  about  seven  on  that  morning." 

"You  are  not  obliged,  Colonel  French———"  begins  the 
coroner,  nervously,  but  Colonel  Ffrench  goes  quietly  on  : 

"  I  had  been  here  about  ten  the  preceding  night.  Pri- 
vate business,  concerning  only  myself  and  Miss  Martinez, 
brought  me.  It  was  not  necessary  to  disturb  Mis.  Fan- 
shawe  by  my  presence,  so  I  did  not  see  her.  I  lemained 
conversing  with  Miss  Martinez  over  half  an  hour.  Then  I 
left.  It  was  raining  heavily,  and  blowirg  a  gale.  I  did  not 
care  about  facing  th^  two-mile  walk  to  St   Ann's  in  tlie  teeth 


M 

I 

I' ; 


k 

■■■vmk 

m 

m 

^ 


IN  THE  DARK  ffOUX, 


]i  \m 


^1 


pi''    % 


of  the  storm,  and  knowing  the  place  well,  I  went  to  tht 
summer-house.  I  sat  there  for  some  hours,  but  the  storra 
did  not  a1;ate,  and  finally  I  fell  asleep.  I  left  as  soon  as  1 
woke,  about  seven,  and  so  missed  the  first  train  to  New 
York,  which  I  had  intended  to  take." 

There  is  silence — extremely  awkward  silence.  Dr.  Hun* 
ter,  the  coroner,  has  never  felt  so  embarrassed  and  non- 
plussed in  his  life.  It  has  an  ugly  look — a  devilishly  ugly  look, 
he  thinks,  for  the  colonel.  What  the  dense  made  him  stay  m  the 
summer-house  ?  Confound  the  s'immer-house,  and  confound 
Johnny's  prying  eyes.  He  gives  that  youngster  a  savage 
glance  that  makes  him  quake.  There  is  not  much  more  to 
be  done.  The  whole  thing  is  hasty  and  informal,  the  jury 
feel  as  uncomfortable  as  the  coroner,  and  about  noon  a  ver- 
dict in  "  accordance  with  the  facts  "  is  returned.  Mrs.  Fan- 
ihawe  has  died  of  heart-disease,  induced  by  the  shock  of  the 
fobbery  committed  by  some  person  or  persons  unknown. 

The  detectives  down  from  New  York  look  at  one  another 
and  grin.  Men  exchange  looks,  and  shrug  their  shoulders, 
coioner  and  jury  look  unspeakably  relieved,  and  depart  with 
stolid  faces.  They  have  done  their  duty — now  let  the  de- 
tectives find  out  the  robber  if  they  can.  The  throng  dis- 
perses, and  Colonel  Ffrench  follows,  amazingly  erect  and 
upright,  cool  and  unflinching  for  a  suspected  criminal 

That  evening  brings  Mr.  Dane  Fanshawe,  pale,  breathless, 
horror-stricken.  Vera  looks  at  him  in  honest  surprise,  as 
she  sees  the  grief,  the  real  regret  in  his  face,  and  softens  to 
him  ever  so  little. 

After  all,  perhaps,  some  men  cannot  help  being  half  fool 
half  knave — it  seems  born  with  them — and  he  has  reason  to 
be  sorry,  for  he  has  killed  the  goose  that  laid  the  golden 
eggs.     Vera  cannot  refrain  from  telling  him  so. 

**  All  that  win  not  bring  her  back,"  she  says,  with  a  touch 
of  scorn  ;  "  if  you  had  been  here,  it  need  never  have  Imp- 
pened.     I  say  it  is  your  doing  as  much  as  the  burglars*  J  " 


,  to  tha 
le  storm 
ion  as  1 

to  New 

)r.  Hun* 
ind  non. 
gly  look, 
tay  in  the 
:onfound 
a  savage 
I  more  to 
the  jury 
on  a  ver- 
^rs.  Fan- 
•ck  of  the 
nown. 
€  another 
Ihoulders, 
ipart  with 
;t  the  de- 
:ong  dis- 
-ect  and 

peathless, 
rprise,  at 
loftens  to 

lalf  fool 
[-eason  to 
goldca 

a  toucb 
ive  liap- 
rsr'!" 


nr  THE  DARK  HOUR. 


tOf 


"  But»  good  Heaven  !  Vera,  how  could  I  tell  ? '  He  ii 
JO  pale,  so  piteous,  so  tiemulous,  as  he  says  it,  that  she  r» 
lents.  "  I  did  not  think — how  could  any  one  ev«r  think  it 
would  come  to  this  ?  " 

"  She  showed  me  your  telegram  I  "  Vera  exclaims,  her 
eyes  flashing.  '*  Fro:n  first  to  last,  Dane  Fanshawe,  you 
have  acted  toward  her  like  a  brute,  and — oh,  my  poor  little 
Dot,  she  was  fond  of  you  I  " 

He  lays  his  face  on  the  mantel  with  a  groan.  He  is 
actually  cr/in^f  the  weak,  poor  creature  ;  but  it  is  more 
than  Vert,  than  any  one  would  have  given  him  credit 
for. 

**  I  woi»ld  give  my  life,  so  hear  me  Heaven,"  he  says,  "  to 
bring  her  back  ! " 

Perhaps  at  the  moment  he  means  it.  She  sighs  drearily 
and  lays  her  tired  head  down  upon  the  casket. 

"  Bring  her  back  ! "  she  repeats,  with  a  sob  ;  "  bring  her 
back  1     Oh,  Dora  !  my  dear,  my  dear  !  " 

She  has  not  wept  much,  but  some  subtle  chord  is  touchec 
every  now  and  then,  and  a  rain  of  tears  follows.  She  cries 
now  silently  and  long.  "  My  dear  little  love  !  my  dear  littj 
love  I "  she  repeats  over  and  over.  Never  once  has  one 
unkind  or  harsh  word  fallen  from  Dora's  lips  to  her.  Dora 
has  loved  her,  cared  for  her,  made  sacrifices  for  her,  and  in 
Dora's  dy^tig  hour,  in  her  desperate  death  struggle,  she  was 
not  there  to  save  or  help. 

Richard  Ffrench  comes,  and  she  lifts  two  streaming  "yes 
Sbr  one  moment  in  appeal  to  his  face.  '*  You  are  all  1  have, 
do  not  leave  me  !  "  that  glance  says,  if  he  could  but  reac'  't. 
He  ta.kes  his  place  near  her  in  silence,  but  a  silence  that  if 
full  of  sympathy,  and  that  soothes  her.  It  is  good  to  have 
him  here,  it  is  a  comfort,  a  protection,  something  to  cling  to 
in  hei  great  and  sudden  shipwreck. 

The  funeral  is  to  be  next  day,  and  the  concourse  will 
be  uriprecedented.     The  whole  country  side  means  to  tunc 


w 


m 


m 


H 
till 

N 


:^  I' 


ill  . 


W  rm  LARK  HOUK 

out  in  sombre  rorce.  Friends  come  down  from  the  dty-^HM 
such  funeral  has  ever  taken  place  in  St.  Ann's.  Many  pei 
sons  pass  in  and  out  in  the  room  of  death ;  Vera  is  tliert 
eonstantly,  worn  and  wan  to  a  degree.  Once,  as  she  sits  at 
her  dreary  and  solitary  post,  a  small,  f -mERan  looking  man 
comes  up  to  her,  and  makes  an  awkwara  bow. 

^<  Ask  pardon,  miss,"  he  says,  in  an  apologetic,  guarded 
undertone.     "  I'm  Daggit." 

Vera  stares  blankly. 

"Daggit,  miss,"  repeats  the  small  man,  in  a  whisptr,  "of 
the  detective  force — private.  Employed  by  your  sister- 
party  lately  deceased.  Down  here  on  my  own  hook,  in  thif 
unpleasant  business.  Would  you  mind  telling  me,  miss,  who 
that  nice-looking,  lady-like  young  gentleman  is  ?  " 

He  points  straight  at  Dane  Fanshawe. 

"  Him,  miss,  with  the  wipe — ask  pardon,  the  handkerchid 
up  to  his  face.     He's  the  husband,  ain't  he,  miss  ?" 

**  Yes,"  she  says,  mechanically;  "it  is  Mr.  Fanshawe." 

Mr.  Daggit's  light  eyes  seem  to  bore  two  holes  through 
Mr.  Fanshawe's  anatomy  on  the  spot. 

"  Thanky,  miss.  Yes,  I  knowed  it  was.  Not  on  good 
terms,  was  they,  miss — him  and  the  dv .  ej.sed  party  ?  Speal; 
up,  miss,  if  you  please.  I've  tacided  ti us  job  on  my  own 
hook,  and  mean  to  see  daylight." 

**  No,  not  on  good  terms,"  answers  Vera,  stiil  half  bewil- 
dered as  to  his  drift. 

"  Hard  up,  wasn't  he,  miss  ?  Running  after  a  play-actoi 
—  a«k  pardon  foi"  naming  her.  They're  expensive,  that  lot — 
uncommon!  Deceased  party — ask  pardon,  lady  wouldn't 
pay  his  debts  ?     Hem-m  !  " 

Mr.  Daggit  bores  another  hole  through  Mr.  Fanshawe,  and 
padiics  h:s  hriid  musingly  orer  his  mouth. 

"  Was  m  Philadelphia  a*  the  time,  wasn't  he  ?  ' 

»*lii  Philadelphia." 

'*  Uniy  sawvit  iv  the  Herald  by  chance — rum  start  Aat,  foi 


r 

lypci 

i  tlieri 

sits  at 

g  man 

uarde4 


sister — 
,  in  thii 
iss,  who 


ikerchitisi 

thro'''',#i 

)n  good 
Speal: 
[my  own 

bewil- 

|ay-actot 

lat  lot — 
wouldn't 


Iwe 


,and 


IN  THE  DARK  HOUR, 


M 


Itiat,  fd 


a  man  :    The  coroner's  got  the  hair  ?  "  he  sajs,  so  abrupt^ 
that  Vera  stares  at  him  once  more. 

"  Yes,"  she  says,  wonderingly. 

The  Hght  eyes  are  on  Mr.  Dane  Fanshawe's  Dundrear) 
whiskers,  as  if  counting  every  separate  hair. 

"  Hum-r.) !  "  he  muses  again.  "  And  that  tall  gent,  witl 
the  broad  shoulders,  and  his  head  up,  is  he  heir  ? — him  ai 
vliey — ask  pardon,  miss — him  as  they  suspect  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  Vera  says,  shrinking  froD' 
him  in  sudden  terror,  "  I  don't  know  who  you  are." 

"Ask  pardon,  miss,  for  troubling  you  Won't  ask  any 
more  questions.  I'm  Daggit,  iniss,  as  your  sister  employed 
to  look  up  that  precious  husband  of  hers,  and  that  singing 
hussy — ask  pardon.  And  I  have  looked  him  up,  and  I  meat 
to  keep  on  looking  him  up,  and  see  daylight  if  I'ra  shot  foj 
it!" 

That  is  the  last  of  Mr.  Daggit.  Vera  sees  him  no  mo^e, 
and  forg-ts  him  in  a  moment.  For  the  metallic  case  inclosei 
the  rosewood  casket — she  is  taking  her  last  look  at  the  dead 
face,  her  last  kiss  of  the  dead  lips,  the  last  farewell  of  the 
sister  she  loves.  This  side  of  eternity  they  will  meet  no 
more. 

"  Oh,  my  love  1  my  love  ! "  she  cries  ou*  mildly,  struck 
with  sudden  horror  and  panic.  Some  one  :omes  at  that 
frightened,  helpless  cry,  and  puts  his  arms  about  her  before 
them  all,  and  holds  her. 

"Vera,  my  osvn  love,"  says  a  voice  she  knows  welL 
•*  Vera,  my  dear,  my  dear  ! "  And  she  i  lings  to  him  and 
hides  her  face  on  his  shoulder,  quivering  all  orer,  while  the 
case  is  screwed  down,  and  the  dead  woman  taken  away.  In 
tiicse  sublimated  moments  we  forget  ourselves  and  the  world 
outside  of  us,  but  never  for  long.  He  lets  her  go,  consigning 
her  to  the  care  of  Harriet,  who  looks  on,  tea  '  i\  but  approv- 
big,  and  goes  with  the  rest.  And  Mrs.  Grundy  does  not  9>Vf 
crsuch — considering  she  has  known  him  so  long,  and  bcci 
i6« 


ii. 


A- 


1^; 


m 


3 


iTo 


«¥  rjTf  />^jrjr  irouM, 


always  attaclied  to  hi.ii,  and  the  occasion  and  everything. 

And  he  is  a  splendid  fellow  1  the  ladies  dec  iare  in  an  irrele* 
vant  burst.  On  the  whole,  some  of  them  would  not  mind  it 
themselves. 

They  lay  Theodora  Lightwood  Fanshawe  in  the  Charlton 
vault,  where  John  and  Robert  Charlton  already  He,  and  go 
and  leave  her.  She  is  dead  and  buried.  The  interest 
centres  in  Colonel  Ffrench  now.  Things  look  badly  for 
him — very  badly.  Murmurs  are  rising,  swelling,  growing 
louder.  He  is  the  heir,  the  only  one  to  benefit  by  her  death, 
he  was  there  that  night,  no  one  knows  why ;  he  spent  it  in 
the  grounds,  by  his  own  showing.  He  and  Mrs.  Fanshawe 
were  not  good  friends — it  looks  badly.  If  he  was  a  poor  man 
he  would  not  be  let  off  scot-free  in  this  way  ;  he  would  not 
be  at  large  with  a  cloud  of  robbery  and  sudden  death  upon 
him.  The  rumor  grows  and  grows,  louder  and  more  threat* 
ening,  and  reaches  Charlton.  It  reaches  Harriet,  and  Har 
riei;  carries  it  lo  Vera.  The  end  will  be  that  Colonel  FfrencK, 
before  a  week,  will  lie  in  prison. 

Two  days  have  passed  since  the  funeral ;  it  is  the  after- 
noon of  the  third.  Colonel  ITrench  sits  in  his  room  alone, 
at  the  St.  Ann's  HotcJ.  No  public  demonstration  has  yet 
been  made,  but  no  one  sees  the  gathering  storm  more 
clearly  than  he.  He  is  strongly  suspected,  he  cannot  clear 
himself;  before  anuthe.  day  a  warrant  may  be  out  for  his 
arrest ;  he  may  be  lodged  in  the  town  jail.  The  first  shock 
is  over,  an  i  he  has  braced  himself  to  face  his  fate,  to  meet 
the  blow  What  must  b??,  must  be — he  is  a  fatalist,  more  or 
less-  -if  it  is  written,  it  is  written.  Of  course,  he  will  do 
what  he  can,  but  the  prospect  looks  gloomy.  He  must  resign 
his  comnission,  inform  his  friends,  put  his  affairs  in  order 
leave  Charlton  Place  in  the  care  of  the  lawyers  and  of  Vera, 
and  fight  for  what  is  dearer  to  him  than  life — his  honor. 
Will  V-ra  believe  him  guilty  ?  That  thought  is  the  hardest 
to  bcv.    )f  all 


'erythingt 
ui  irrele* 
It  mind  It 

Charlton 
'.,  and  go 
I  interest 
)adly  for 
growing 
er  death, 
ent  it  in 
"anshawe 
»oor  mac 
Mild  not 
th  upon 
e  threat- 
ind  Har 
FfrencK, 

le  after- 
n  alone, 
has  yet 
n  more 
ot  clear 

for  his 
>t  shock 
:o  meet 
more  or 
will  do 
;t  resigo 
1  order 
if  Vera, 

honor, 
harckat 


""he  frosty  fan  su„.h,„,  ,,J7,f;;        -.  y.Uo.  ,,;„,„,, 
He  „  busily  writing  letters.  „  ak  „^"  .1'      "''  -^"""(f  'al.le. 

"Set"  r  ''  '  ^^  -^ '^ot.  ""'''  "'  '^«  <^-« 

«on.e  or  co™:;-ra„7ir  ^'"^  - 
people,  of  course.  ^'  '^"*"''  ^'"e  of  the  hotel 

•  'ong,  bUck.  vailed  figuTstf  ^dT^r     ""^  """^  ^^'^^r 
crape  and  bombazine.  Tu,  dlsot  Tl'  '^'"~-  ^^ost  i« 
knows  her.  "'  ""P""  'he  heavy  crape  vail  h. 

•"e  needed  support.    ShT Llje^l't'  ^^  ""=  '^""^  "  ^ 

-pale  to  the  lips-and  her  -!       u    "  ^'  ''*'  ^'^  seen  he. 

"Si'  down,"  he  2,  ZV  "^""^  """^  '"^  before  hi^ 

•"O^.     Vouaren^r^trsLl^"'  ^  •=''^''  "''-  i"  r- 

2»ne  stands,  however  anri  r»  i 
J.  greatly,  strongly  a^a'd  t"?!?  "°"°"  '"  'P»^-    She 
*e  essays  before  .he^ordt•X  ^f"  "''•     ^"<='''  '-«• 

.    i'  IS  wuh  the  utmost  difficultv  i '  *■"  '""X-" 

"  Thank  Heaven  i  '•'■  h- 
not  believe  it-yo.  ^^/Lrb^i;",-;  "'^^  T""     ^^  ^ 
I  do  not-I  will  not     r  '  ^''^  ""at." 

"ThankHeave„"he~"Tr" 
-i'  is  like  you  ,  ,  do  „„   2;  IT'  """'"^  ■•  "'■•  is  "ke  y„„ 
"■«.  Vera,  need  I  say  it ,     wL'^'ffV'"^"  ""-    ^  "« inn., 
fte  .ummer-house  -I  was  nearer  m.  f"  '  7^"' straight  t, 
"  -«  for  the  la.t  rime,  and  1  s  a.ed      tr  "'"  "='""''"''• 

»rea     Beheve  me  guatle«^ 


i'il 


l>; 


mi 


lis 


n 


IN  THE  DARK  HOUR, 

and  it  will  .iiatter  little  who  believes  me  guilty.  Men  hav« 
suffered  unjustly  before — I  can  bear  it  as  well  as  they," 

She  makes  a  second  effort,  greater  than  the  firsL  H« 
wonders  what  it  w  she  is  going  to  say. 

*'  I    want   to   tell   you — 1  have  come   to  tell   you — that 

if "  a  pause,  "  that  if  the  announcement  of  our  marriage 

will  help  you,  1  will  announce  it.  I — I  will  stay  with  you— • 
I  will  be  your  wife." 

The  last  word  is  a  positive  gasp.  No  words  can  tell  the 
effo  it  costs  her  to  say  this.  She  turns  \  from  him  as  she 
does  say  it,  and  walks  suddenly  to  one  of  the  windows.  Itii 
not  alone  the  offer  itself,  hard  as  it  is  to  make — it  is  the  con- 
struction he  may  put  upon  it.  As  the  sister  of  the  rich  Mrs. 
Fanshawe,  only  a  week  ago  she  rejected  with  scorn  and 
pride  the  offer  of  being  his  wife.  As  the  impoverished  sis- 
ter of  the  dead  Mrs.  Fanshawe  she  comes  to  him — the  heir 
— and  renews  the  offer  herself.  How  hard  she  has  found  it 
to  come — to  say  this — only  Vera's  proud  and  sensitive  heart 
can  ever  know.  Let  him  misunderstand,  if  he  will — it  is  all 
a  misunderstanding  from  first  to  last.  She  will  make  it  ii 
she  dies  in  the  effort  to  say  the  words.  But  he  does  not 
misunderstand,  he  is  unutterably  touched — moved  to  the 
very  depths  of  his  soul. 

*What  shall  I  say?"  he  answsrs,  brokenly.  ••  I  cannot 
thank  you,  I  have  no  words.  It  is  like  you — I  say  that 
4gain — to  come  to  me  in  the  darkest  hour  of  my  life,  and 
offer  me  the  sacrifice  of  yourSo  But  I  cannot  accept  i\ 
The  name  I  give  you  must  be  a  clean  one,  the  hand  I 
offer  free  from  all  suspicion  of  crime.  I  would,  indeed, 
be  a  dastard  if  I  accepted  your  heroism  to  help  mysel£  I 
would  not  accept  it  if  it  could  help  me — but  it  cannot 
Nothing  now  but  the  discovery  of  the  real  criminal  cat 
do  that.  For  all  the  world  I  would  not  have  it  knowi 
that  you  are  my  wife  now — the  wife  of  a  suspected  thiel 
No.  Vera,   ^   iove  you  with  all  my  heart — a  hundred-fol4 


hav« 


» 


^that 
irriage 
you—* 

ell  th« 
as  she 
,     Itii 
he  con- 
:h  Mrs. 
rn  and 
led  si»- 
[he  heit 
found  it 
ft  heart 
it  is  all 
e  it  if 
les  not 
to  the 

1  cannot 
ly  that 
Ife,  and 
[ept   i". 
land  I 
Indeed, 
lelt     I 
iannot 
ca& 
mowi 
thiet 
:d'ibl4 


IN  THE   DARK  HOUM, 


373 


bettei  in  this  h^ur  than  ever  before.  And  for  that  very 
love's  sake  I  sa)  no  If  the  day  ever  conies  when  I  stand 
clear  and  free,  I  will  go  to  you  then,  and " 

I3ut  she  turns  from  the  window  as  hastily  as  she  has  turned 
to  it,  and  pulls  her  vail  once  more  over  her  face. 

'*  Say  no  move  1 "  she  exclaims  ;  "  let  me  go  1     It  is  ao 

warm  here — I  am  faint "    The  words  die  away,  but  she 

rallies  in  a  moment,  and  pushes  aside  the  hand  he  holds  out. 
"  I  am  better — let  me  go  I  " 

Something  in  her  strained,  unnatural  tot?e  checks  the 
words  he  would  speak.  He  goes  down  with  her  to  the  door, 
where  Johnny  and  the  phaeton  wait  He  helps  her  in,  but 
she  seems  to  shrink  from  his  touch. 

"  Good  by,"  she  says.  "  Drive  fast,  Johnny — it  is  nearly 
dark." 

"  Not  good-by,"  he  answers,  cheerily ;  "  good-night  I 
will  see  you  early  to-morrow.     I  have  much  to  say." 

"  Drive  fast,  Johnny,"  is  her  sole  reply. 

She  shivers,  and  draws  her  wrap  closer  about  her.  How 
dark  it  grows,  how  windy  it  is,  how  deathly  chill ! 

He  stands  in  the  doorway  until  she  is  out  of  sight,  then 
slowly  and  thoughtfully  returns  to  his  work  with  a  new,  glad 
hope  stirring  within  him  that  all  his  gloomy  prospects  cannot 
darken.  And  Vera  is  driven  rapidly  home  through  tlie  gust}* 
gloaming,  and  ascend^:  to  her  room.  How  still  the  house  ii, 
how  empty,  how  lonely  1  How  empty  is  the  whole  world  1 
Every  one  seems  to  have  died  with  Dot — life  has  come  to  an 
end.  It  is  hke  a  tomb — like  the  vault  where  they  have  laid 
her,  these  echoing,  unoccupied  rooms.  Is  it  a  sin  to  wish 
•he  were  dead,  too  ?  What  in  all  the  weary  world  is  there 
left  to  live  for  ?  She  is  tired  out,  her  head  aches — or  is  it 
her  heart  ? — she  feels  numb  and  stricken,  lost,  forsakea,  and 
full  of  pain.  *'  Oh,  me  I  oh,  me  ! "  she  says,  pitifully,  and 
la^s  her  folied  arms  down  on  the  table,  and  her  Cace  apoe 
them,  with  a  ^ong,  sobbing  sigh. 


r 


I) 


374 


TRACKED, 


The  wind  cries  like  a  banshee  about  the  gaoiet,  the 
rattle  stripped,  bicak  arms,  the  night  falls  cold  and  starleiti 
And  still  Vera  lies  there  long  after  the  last  light  has  faded« 
her  head  on  her  arms,  as  if  she  never  cared  to  lift  A  again. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


I 


'  Ct 


TRACKKD. 

r  is  not  quite  ten  the  following  morning  when  Colo- 
nel Ffrench  presents  himself  at  Charlton.  Har- 
riet is  the  first  person  he  encounters,  and  Harriet 
is  struck  by  the  bright  eagerness  of  his  face,  the  happy  glad- 
ness of  his  smile.  He  is  more  like  the  Captain  Dick  of  six 
years  ago  than  she  has  seen  him  yet,  but  for  some  reason  the 
change  strikes  her  as  out  of  place,  and  she  frowns  it  down 
resentfully. 

"  Where  is  Miss  Vera  ? "  he  asks.  "  Just  tell  her  I  am 
here,  Harriet,  will  you,  and  particularly  desire  to  see  her." 

Harriet's  brow  lowers  a  little  more,  and  she  does  not  itii 
He  looks  at  hor  in  surprise. 

"  Is  she  not  up  ?  "  he  asks. 

Harriet  does  not  answer. 

'*  Surely,"  he  says,  and  comes  suddenly  nearer,  **  surely  ih« 
is  not  ill?" 

Still  Miss  Hart  maintains  gloomy  silence.  In  real  alarm 
be  speaks  for  the  third  time. 

"  For  Heaven"  s  sake,  Harriet,  what  is  the  matter  ?  Why 
dcn't  you  speak  ?  I  wish  to  see  my — my  wife.  Where  if 
•he?" 

Hamet's  sealed  lipw  slowly  and  grimly  unclose.     Sb'*  mai 


TRACKED, 


375 


anfw«r  now — her  dismal  reticence  has  effectually  banished  all 
tbe  buoyancy  from  her  visitor's  look  and  manner. 

*^  Ay,"  she  says,  "  where  is  she  ?  that  is  what  I  would  like 
to  know.  Youi  wife  I  You've  o^n^  t  to  it  at  last,  have  you  ? 
It's  time,  too,  after  six  years." 

**  What  do  you  mean  ?  '• 

**  I  mean  that  Miss  Vcra'i  gon<8—^<i#  wnt  away  thii 
DK>ming  at  half-past  six.  Johnny  drove  her  to  the  station, 
and  where  she's  went,  or  what  she's  goin'  to  do,  tho  Lord 
knows   I  don't" 

He  falls  back  a  step — the  surprise,  the  blow,  literally  hold 
him  dumb. 

"  She's  left  a'most  all  her  things — her  fine  dresses,  heapf 
and  heaps  of  'em  upstairs,  and  took  nothin'  but  her  moura- 
in'.  All  her  jewels  and  that  she  sent  to  the  bank  yesterday 
One  trunk's  all  she's  fetched,  and  not  the  biggest  nuther. 
You  needn't  ask  me  questions — I  don't  know  nuthin'.  She's 
gone  up  to  York  first — she's  friends  there,  I  reckon — more'n 
she's  got  here,  from  all  I  can  see." 

Harriet  shoots  this  Parthian  shaft  at  the  culprit,  standing 
pale,  and  startled,  and  silent  before  her,  with  a  baleful  glance. 
It  is  not  that  she  likes  Captain  Dick  less,  but  that  she  likes 
Miss  Vera  more. 

"  Slie's  going  to  look  for  work  when  she  gets  settled  in  hei 
mind,"  she  goes  on ;  "  that's  all  I  know,  if  you  was  to  stand 
ftarin'  at  me  there  till  crack  o'  doom.  She  went  to  see  you 
yes'day  afternoon — if  you'd  care  to  know,  you'd  orter  asked 
her  then.  She'd  no  money,  as  you  might  a-knowed,  now 
her  sister's  gone,  poor  thing,  zx\^  you've  got  all.  I  never  did 
think  much  o'  men  folk,  at  no  time,"  said  Harriet,  bitterly; 
**  and  the  more  I  see,  the  less  I  think." 

With  v»  hich  she  goes.  Nothing  more  is  to  be  got  from  her  \ 
no  I  ote,  no  message  has  been  left.  He  h'^^ts  up  Johnny, 
who  corroborates  the  housekeeper's  story.  He  has  dhveil 
Miss  Vera  to  the  station,  and  ^«^  her  oe  boftrd  tiike  trai^ 


^, 


■^_y,o. 


^^^v^ 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-S) 


1.0 


I.I 


Hi    125 


Ui  Uii   |22 
2.0 


lu      Kb 


II 


im 


L25  IIIIU   IIIIII.6 


^ 


7 


y 


/^ 


Photographic 

Sciences 
Corporation 


\ 


:\ 


\ 


V 


^ 


c^ 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)  872-4503 


'<h 


4^4 

^rv 


^ 


TRACKED, 


her  trunk  checke^l,  and  the  ticket  taken  for  New  York.     Be 
)rond  that  he  has  nothing  to  tell. 

The  difference  half  an  hour  can  make  in  a  life  !  Ct  la»ie 
Ffrench  walked  over  the  road  to  Charlton,  every  pulse  beat- 
ing high  with  hope  and  expectation,  full  of  intense  long'.igt« 
see  V  era  again — he  walkjs  over  the  road  from  Charlton  fuU 
of  consternation,  regret,  keen  disappointment,  and  drtad^ 
Has  his  refusal  to  accept  her  offer,  her  generous  sacrifice  yes* 
tcrday,  given  her  offense  ?  Has  she  again  misunderstood 
him  ?  Has  she  thought — good  Heaven  !  can  she  think  he 
does  not  want  her  ?  Where  can  she  have  gone  ?  What  does 
she  mean  to  do  ?  Work  for  her  living  ?  The  thought  is  a 
blank  terror  to  him.  He  has  not  the  faintest  idea  as  to  who 
her  friends  in  New  York  may  be,  or  where  he  must  look  for 
her.  Look  for  her,  of  course  he  must,  if  he  is  not  arrested 
before  he  can  do  it.  He  strides  over  the  ground  full  of  pas- 
ttonate  impatience  and  wrath  with  himself.  What  a  stupid 
blunderer  he  is  to  have  let  her  go  as  he  did  last  evening,  to 
have  refused  her  noble  offer  in  that  abrupt  way — the  offer 
that  it  cost  her  so  much  to  make.  He  has  taken  it  for  granted 
that  she  would  continue  on  at  Charlton — the  idea  of  her 
leaving,  of  her  working,  is  an  idea  that  has  never  once 
occurred  to  him.  Of  course,  she  must  be  found,  and  at  once  , 
it  will  not  be  a  difficult  matter  to  trace  her  in  the  city. 

He  is  close  upon  the  hotel,  when  a  man,  a  stranger,  a 
•hort,  commonplace-looking  person,  steps  up  to  him  and 
touches  his  hat. 

"Ask  pardon — Colonel  Ffrench,  if  I  air't  mistaken?" 

"  That  is  my  name." 

**  Thanky.  Could  I  have  a  few  minutes'  private  couversa* 
tion  with  you,  colonel  ?  It's  important,  and  I  shan't  keep 
you  Icing." 

"  My  good  fellow,  no — not  at  present.  I  hm  in  the  deus« 
and  all  of  a  hurry.  Come  this  afternoon — say  at  three.  1 
cannot  stop  now/* 


TRACKED, 


177 


beat 
\gt« 

n  fuU 

irt&d. 

e  ye* 

rstood 

nk  he 

t  does 

Lt  is  a 

;o  who 

)ok  for 

rrested 

of  pas- 
stupid 

ling,  to 

le  offer 

jranted 
of  her 
once 
once , 

iger,  a 
[u  and 

?•• 

liversa* 
kee? 

deusa 
se.    1 


**  Ask  pardon,  but  it's  your  own  business,  colonel — ^leait 
wise,  if  s  both  our  business  at  present  Iff  about  ihia  here 
little  job  over  at  Charllon." 

Color.il  Ffrench  stops  and  stares  at  him 
>  "  Who  arc  you  ?  "  he  demands. 

"  Delccli  e  Daggit,  of  New  York ;  down  here  on  my  own 
hook,  and  a  purpose  to  get  at  the  bottom  of  this  here  affair 
I've  a  won!  or  two  I'd  particularly  like  to  say,  if  so  be  you're 
as  much  interested  in  this  matter  as  most  folks  would  be  in 
vour  place." 

*♦  Come  with  me,**  says  Colonel  Ffrench,  and  leads  the  way 
to  his  room.  Here  he  points  out  a  chair  to  his  visitor,  and 
seats  himself  squarely  in  front  of  him. 

"  Now,  then,  Detective  Daggit,  what  is  it  you  have  to  say  ?  " 

"Thanky,  colonel,'*  says  polite  Mr.  Daggit,  wiping  hii 
already  very  dry  mouth  with  his  hand  :  "  first  of  all  there's  a 
reward  out—  offered  by  you — for  the  apprehension  of  the 
Charlton  burglar     A  handsome  sum — five  thousand  dollars." 

Colonel  Ffrench  nods. 

"  Very  well — I  mean  to  earn  that  money,  and  I  don*t  thin* 
it's  goin'  to  be  sech  a  tougti  job  nuther.  I've  been  employed 
by  the  late  lamented  party  this  some  time  back  to  keep  an 
eye  on  her  hus!)and — a  very  nice  gentleman,  indeed,  but  a  lit- 
tle wild  or  so,  about  ladies  and  such ;  and  when  it  came  out 
about  this  here  robbery,  I  tackled  the  job  at  once.  Now, 
colonel,  there's  them  as  suspect  ^^«— ask  pardon — but  it's 
Ike  folks  to  do  it.  You  being  next  heir  and  that,  and  if  you 
attempt  to  leave  this  lere  little  town  you'll  be  arrested — att 
pardon  -it  ain't  a  pleasant  thing  to  say,  but  you  will." 

**  I  know  it,"  Colonel  Ffrench  says,  sententicusly. 

"  Then  what  you'd  better  do,  colonel,  is  to  lay  by  here  r 
bit  and  wilt,  and  hand  the  matter  over  to  me.  I've  ferreteo 
out  gentlemen  of  this  kidney  before,  and  I'll  do  it  again,  of 
my  name's  not  Daggic  I'll  lay  you  a  fifty  that  I  have  thif 
(ellow  safely  inder  'Ay  thumb  before  another  firtnight." 


;i 


3;« 


TRACKED, 


mi 


:i 


Colonel  Ffrench  looks  at  him  keenly. 

**  You  suspect—"  he  begins. 

**  Never  mind  who  I  suspect  just  now.  I'll  make  my  to* 
picions  sure  before  I  name  names.  Just  answer  me  a  few 
questions  first,  then  I'll  take  myself  off." 

He  pulls  out  a  note-book  and  pencil,  and  proceeds  to  prcK 
pound  sundry  questions.  They  have  little  bearing  on  th« 
case  in  hand,  so  far  as  Colonel  Ffrench  can  see,  but  he  an< 
swers  them.  Mr.  Daggit  is  rising  to  go  when  a  visitor  is  an* 
nounced.  He  enters  and  proves  to  be  Daddy.  Insts.ntlv 
Mr.  Daggit* s  bright  eyes  bore  two  holes  through  him. 

"  I've  been  to  Shaddeck  Light,  Cap'n  Dick,"  says  th« 
softy,  shifting  from  one  foot  to  the  other  in  his  usual  way. 
■*I  was  here  last  evenin'  to  see  you,  but  you  was  eout. 
Somebod/s  been  a  stoppin'  at  Shaddeck,  and  forgot  suthin', 
and  I  fetched  it  right  along  to  you." 

He  produces,  after  much  fumbling,  a  little  flat  packagCp 
wrapped  in  a  piece  of  newspaper.  Detective  Daggit  waits 
and  watches  with  keen  professional  interest. 

"  Why  do  you  bring  it  to  me  ?  "  asks  Colonel  Ffrench. 

Daddy  does  not  know  why ;  he  shifts  from  foot  to  foot, 
and  gapes  vacantly  at  the  ceiling.  He  found  'em  and  ha 
brought  'em ;  he  don't  know  why ;  they  might  belong  to 
Cap'n  Dick,  mebbe — nobody  else  goes  thar.  He  found  'era 
yes'daiy  ;  the  pieces  o*  paper  blowed  inter  the  rocks,  the  pic 
ter  on  the  floor  of  Cap'n  Dick's  room.  Thought  they  might 
be  his'n'  and  so — he  stops.  Colonel  Ffrench  has  uttered  a 
»harp  exclamation  of  surprise. 

"  Miss  Charlton  I "  he  exclaims. 

He  has  opened  the  flat  package,  and  finds  a  card  photo> 
graph  and  two  or  three  scraps  of  a  letter.  It  is  the  photon 
ginph  :3l  a  lady ;  it  is  the  face  of  Eleanor  Charlton.  Detec* 
tiTe  Daggit  pounces  upon  it,  %nd  looks  at  it  over  hb  shoulder 

''An  uncommon  good-lo«?king  young  woman,"  he  Mjn 
**  Ask  pardon,  but  you  know  h«r,  eolonel  ?" 


TRACKED, 


m 


)r  fii» 
A  few 

L>  pttK 

•n  tha 
le  an< 
is  an- 
itintW 

yf  th« 
al  way. 
s  eout. 
suthin', 

ackage, 
it  waits 

nch. 
to  foot, 
and  ha 
ong  to 
nd  'era 
he  pic 
might 
tared  a 


I  photo. 

Iphota 

loetec. 

>u]dar 


**  Know  har  ?    Yes,"  Colonel  French  anawert  dreamily. 

Eleanor  Charlton's  picture  and  true  I  lie  looks  at  ii 
aga/n  ;  she  has  changed ;  the  hair  is  dressed  diffetentl>  sba 
lo':)ks  older,  graver,  more  careworn,  he  fancies,  than  as  ha 
remembeii  her.  He  looks  at  the  back;  there  is  the  photo*^ 
^rapher's  name  and  the  place — New  Orleans — and  a  date  in 
pencil. 

"\Vhy,  it  was  only  taken  two  months  ago,"  he  says,  in 
mrprise. 

He  looks  at  the  torn  scraps  of  writing ;  they  have  been 
ret,  and  are  blotted.  They  are  fragments  of  a  letter,  but 
x>ntain  little  that  is  legible.  There  is  a  name,  however,  on 
jne .     **  Yours  ever — ^yours  always — Ernest." 

"  Jest  step  back,  young  man,**  says  Detective  Daggit,  brisk- 
ly, to  Daddy ;  "  you're  a  treasure,  my  lad,  that's  what  you 
are  Now,  Colonel  Ffrench — ask  pardon  for  bothering  you 
til  this  way,  but  I  must  ask  a  few  more  questions.  Tell  ma 
ill  you  know  about  this  here  pretty  young  lady.  It's  the  clew 
I've  wanted,  as  sure  as  I'm  Daggit." 

Colonel  Ffrench  tells  him.  How  Eleanor  Charlton  came 
from  New  Orleans  six  years  before,  and  remained  a  few 
weeks  with  her  mother.  This  photograph  does  not  belong  to 
him ;  he  has  never  seen  her,  nor  heard  of  her  for  the  past 
four  years.  Then  she  was  in  Europe,  traveling  with  a  lady. 
It  is  not  much  he  has  to  tell,  but  Mr.  Daggit  asks  a  number 
<A  a<lroit  questions,  again  apparently  wide  of  the  mark.  Now 
Add  then  Mr.Fanshawe's  name  crops  up,  but  in  an  ofif-hand 
Mi't  of  way.  At  *^ngth  he  rises,  satisfied,  and  puts  up  hit 
book. 

*^  I'll  take  that  picter,  and  these  pieces  of  paper,"  he  says, 
**and  I'll  go  with  you,  young  man,  to  Shaddeck  Light,  aiid 
have  a  look  around.  I've  no  doubt,  from  what  you  say,  the 
burglar  took  a  walk  there  after  he'd  drme  the  job,  and  kept 
dark  there  all  next  day.  He's  dropped  the  picter  ki 
pulling  ou*  hit  handkerchief  or  watch,  and  he's  tore  up  tht 


58o 


TRACKED. 


letter, 
how." 


and  the  irind*  g  blowed  these  acnpi  bftoc     Thaf  • 


i- 


"  £>o  you  mean  to  say  you  connect  the  £nding  of  thii 
photograph  in  any  way  with " 

"  Yes,  I  do.  I'll  not  tell  you  why,  so  you  needn't  ask.  It 
isn't  goin'  to  be  a  hard  job — not  half  so  tough  as  if  a  profet^ 
sional  cracksman  was  in  it.  Lord !  these  amateurs  are  tripped 
up  as  easy  as  nothin'  at  all.  Good-day,  colonel ;  jest  you  keep 
quiet  here  until  you  hear  from  me  again.  I'm  off  this  after- 
noon, but  before  I  go,  I'll  drop  a  hint  in  a  quarter  I  know  o^ 
and  there  won't  be  any  warrant  got  out.  I've  my  eye  on  the 
right  man,  and  I'll  have  my  hand  on  him  before  you're  two 
weeks  older.  And  once  I've  got  him,"  cries  Detective  Dag- 
git,  his  light  eyes  flashing  out,  his  wiry  fists  clenching,  "I'll 
hold  him  while  he  has  a  body  to  kick  or  a  soul  to  d  I 
Now,  Daddy — mm  name.  Daddy — let's  go  and  get  a  boat." 

So  Detective  Daggit  departs,  and  goes  to  work  with  a  will 
He  visits  Shaddeck  Light,  and  inspects  every  cranny  and 
comer.  He  visits  Charlton  Place,  and  investigates  the  late 
Mrs.  Fanshawe's  bedroom  minutely.  He  even  spends  hall 
an  hour  in  Mr.  Fanshawe's  apartments.  His  face  beams  as 
he  bids  Harriet  good-day  and  receives  her  parting  glare  as  a 
benediction. 

Colonel  Ffrench,  remaining  oehind  with  what  patience  he 
may,  is  compelled  perforce  to  give  up  the  pursuit  of  Vera. 
But  a  week  or  two  can  make  little  matter  ;  she  will  not  leave 
New  York  so  soon.  Even  if  he  found  her,  as  things  stand, 
what  is  there  he  can  say  that  she  will  listen  to  ?  His  hands 
and  tongue  are  tied  until  the  Charlton  cri  minal  is  discovered. 
He  will  wait  as  patiently  as  may  be,  and  tnist  in  Providence 
and  Detective  Daggit. 

The  first  week  brings  him  a  note.  D.  D.  is  on  the  track ; 
his  bird  is  in  New  York  ;  he  has  caught  him  sure,  but  doesn't 
mean  to  lay  hands  on  him  just  yet.  He  is  going  South — tr 
New  Orleans  ;  D.  D.  means  to  go,  too. 


Thuff 

;  ofthii 

ask.  It 
I  profet^ 
trippeij 
ou  keep 
lis  after- 
now  oCf 
ion  the 
i're  two 
re  Dag. 

g.  "I'll 
d ! 

boat." 
a  will 
ly  and 
ie  late 
dshalf 
ims  as 
re  as  a 

ice  he 

Vera. 

leave 
stanj, 
hands 
irered. 
dence 

rack; 
lesn't 


TXACXMD, 


»l 


'»ngi.,g  ,0  see  Veral  l>Iro      *""'  "'  >">"d.«ble.    Hi, 

People  sdU^hisp^^uttTsoTr"  **°  "«  ^^'be" 
J.a  real  burglar  I  C^ClZ  2'''  '',"  ""'^^"'"^^  *« 
^^  'he  Cuban  Colons  s"ml      '""  °'  "*"'«  ^"""d.  «nd 
coveiy  can  be  officiaHy  a»nounce7 T^  ^"  •"""  '^^  *■- 
week-the  n.iddle  of  the  T^it  ""'^  °^  ""  »«'=°«<> 

It  does  letter,  ho,.eve      it  h         T"  ""*  ''""8»  "°  'etter. 

*ed.  .ravel.s,k,„ed  dus;;  bu  "ri      n^'"'  '^^S"  '^-'« 
"  I  onlv  waiter! »     ■     ^'        '"""Phant  ^ 

wnte-writm.  never  does  no  goo5  7'*     '^°"'   '  *'^»'' 
»=«,  as  safe,  and  sure,  and  souSs  L      f « ''"'  «°'  '»' 

He  lays  hold  of  the  br^nw!    ^         ^°"'*"'" 
"tendant.  and   tosses  it  off tu.t     7'"  '"'^'  "^  *. 

™™'«''"hanty  you  call  sicSil'  rf"''  '""  '"  *«> 
h-drng  all  next  day.  and  there T.  h  ^  .  "'  ''^  "^J^^ » 
"P  'he  letter.  His  ^en  nlnet  p™""'  **'  P'«"  ""d  'ore 
for  a  burglar,  ain't  '?    aT.^^^  Ernest-sweet,  pretty  name 

St.  Ann's,  takes  the  first  bo^he  fiT?"  '"  '""'•  ''''»=»  «» 
«d"ft  a  day  or  two  after  you  '  i^^  ^l\  ^""^  *<"  P'cked  up 
'^eenport.    There  he  ^"CdTh  ^^^'  -<>  ™-  himself  tS 

^ork.     He  stayed  th.^e  aX^htf  ^f"  ""^  ^'"^ '»  ''«- 
•traight  back."  '^'^'  '"<*  'he  spoU^  ^  ^^^ 

"  Back  I " 

•■■•etS'aSd'^^rrySr^'''-'"^  VV„  „ 

l^'cr  the  funeral  heTSni"l"f-    -^"""-"J 
h«  traps  with  him-^  00^1^    V   1   V  '^^  *'"''"«  «" 

""awhile.     Hewen.:jtoNewv,rk    'rV"'^'^""'- 

f       "«w  If  irk,  a-id  the  first  thinj 


Jte 


TMACXMiX, 


r't 


I 

f  !■ 

: 
; 

i 


he  did  was  to  shave  off  his  whiskers— splendid  whiskOTs-Hdl 
the  ladies  loved  'em  1  'Twas  an  uncommon  pity,  but  they 
had  to  go.  1  was  there  at  the  time,  havin'  my  hair  cut,  and 
I  gDt  a  lock.  I  reckon  when  the  trial  comes  on,  'twill  fit 
that  other  little  lock  the  coroner  has.     Then  he  went  South.'* 

Mr.  Daggit  is  thirsty,  and  takes  another  pull  at  the  brandy 
and  water.     Colonel  Ffrench  waits,  silently  but  excitedly. 

"There  he  sold  some  of  the  jewels — taking  them  out  of 
the  setting,  of  course — some  in  Baltimore,  some  in  Washing- 
ton, and  so  on  until  he  got  to  New  Orleans.  Then  he  went 
to  see  the  young  lady — Miss  Charlton.  She's  principal  of  a 
school  there,  very  high-toned,  and  fashionable,  and  all  that 
There,  too,  he  changed  his  name.  What  does  he  call  him- 
self?   Why,  Mr.  Ernest  Dane." 

Ernest  Dane !  Colonel  Ffrench  knits  his  brows.  Enieil 
Dane  !     Where  has  he  heard  that  name  before  ? 

''  Sounds  familiar,  does  it  ?  Well,  it  seems  he's  a  very  old 
lover  of  this  Miss  Charlton — been  keepin'  company  for  seven 
years,  and  in  a  few  weeks  they're  to  be  married.  There  h* 
is  still,  and  there  he'll  stay  until  we  get  back,  for  I  want  you 
to  come  with  me  this  time.  You'll  like  to  be  in  at  the  death, 
besides  being  a  friend  of  the  young  lady's,  and  being  on  the 
spot  to  break  it  to  her  easy.  He's  all  safe — no  fear  of  that 
—watched  night  and  day,  and  hasn't  an  idee  any  one  suspecti. 
Lord  I  it's  as  neat  a  job  as  ever  was  done,  and  as  easy." 

**  But  who  is  he  ?  "  Colonel  Ffrench  asks  ;  "  you  have  not 
told  me  that.  An  old  lover  of  Miss  Charlton's,  and  about 
to  be  married  to  her  1  Why,  this  is  horrible  !  Who  is  tha 
fellow?  " 

**  He  calls  himself  Ernest  Dane  now,  and  I  reckon  it's  hii 
nam?  fast  enough,  though  he  had  another  tacked  to  it  when 
he  was  here.  Who  is  he  ?  Detective  Daggit  strikes  the 
table  a  blow  that  makes  the  brandy  and  water  jump.  "  It's 
Mr.  Ernest  Dane  Fanshawe !  It's  the  dead  woman's  own 
hufband,  by  the  eternal  jingo  !  ' 


but  thej 
r  cut,  and 
,  'twUl  fit 
at  South." 
)e  brandj 
:itedly. 
m  out  of 
Waihinf> 
1  he  went 
:ipal  of  a 
i  all  that 
call  him- 

EraeiC 

very  old 

for  seven 
Fhere  h« 
^rant  yott 
^e  death, 
I  on  the 
r  of  that 
suspecta. 
.sy." 

lave  not 
id  about 
0  is  the 

Q  it'i  his 
it  when 
ikes  the 
"  It's 
I's  own 


lij 


XV. 


CHAPTER 

1^^  oid-fashioned     Ur.    -  t,  \ 

""Z-  ^t  I,  a  young  ladies'  «n,7       *    «*'~  ^"t  the  «rorM 
'"S    •  '^'  **'■"  ^^"-  ^'>^C 

/'«.»<-«»y ifvl^  ^S^r  *"  •  '"^"^  O-^'obcr  day     Th 
JWgle  of  t«ro  or  ihree  n-        ''"""S  '»*"  are  at  .t^^'       ?' 
ker  su«„g.„o„  S^^^^^-  alone  break.  ^^  ,•     f^^  ""« 

ti^lf  '  •  '''P*'^  ^er  nine  anH  .  *"^  '"a^-     But  ii 

wven  ^ears  hzv^ 


f^\ 


SS4 

pasird  since  she  and  Ernest  Dane  first  met  He  is  not 
at  Ul  the  sort  of  a  man  any  one  would  imagine  a  woman 
of  Eleanor  Charlton's  stamp— earnest  hearted,  pure-souled, 
falling  in  love  with.  In  no  way  is  he  her  equal,  in  no  way 
worttiy  of  her,  but  the  fact  remains,  she  loves  him.  For 
nifCL'  MX  years  they  have  been  apart.  Fate,  with  a  strong 
fiand,  ^as  held  them  asunder ;  but  through  it  all,  through 
time,  absence,  silence,  doubt,  she  has  loved  him,  hoped  in 
him,  waited  for  him.  And  at  last.  Fate,  conquered  by  fidelity, 
las  brought  them  together.  He  has  urged  an  immediate 
marriage,  jind  she  has  consented.  In  two  weeks  the  will  b« 
his  wife. 

Some  «ine  taps  at  the  door.  It  is  a  black  boy  with  a 
card.  Mips  Charlton  looks  up  from  her  writing,  and  glances 
at  it.  A  iOok  of  surprise,  then  of  gladness,  lights  hei 
(ace. 

"  Coloncf  Ffrench  I "  she  exclaims — "  what  a  pleasant  snr* 
prise.  Shew  the  gentleman  into  the  reception-room,  and 
tell  him  I  w/U  be  there  in  a  moment." 

She  rises,  ind  with  the  womanly  instinct  that  never  fails, 
goes  first  to  the  glass.  But  the  shining  coils  of  silken  cheit- 
Dut  hair  are.  smooth  ;  lace,  bow,  cuffs,  all  are  in  order  ;  to 
she  shakes  oat  h<x  d  rk  skirts  and  goes  to  meet  her  guest. 
She  has  nevs.'r  seer  him,  and  but  very  indirectly  heard  of 
him  since  tl^jit  long  past  summer.  It  is  with  very  genuirQ 
{Measure  she  goes  to  meet  him  now. 

He  rises  at  her  entrance.  How  distinguished,  how  fine- 
lk>aking,  ho^  soldierly  he  is  I  is  her  first,  instinctive,  feminine 
tfadught — and  yet  so  exceedingly  like  the  Captain  Dick  of 
old.  She  c&mes  forward  and  holds  out  her  hand,  with  the 
loiile  he  reniembers. 

"  Colonel  Ffrench  I  How  very,  very  glad  I  am  I  What 
a  grea.  and  ielightful  surprise  1  ** 

He  does  not  answer,  although  in  look  and  warm  hand- 
pressure  hit  greeting  is  cordial  enough.     But — ^it  is  a  corioos 


He  is  not 
I  a  woman 

ure-souled, 
in  no  wa^ 
him.  For 
th  a  strong 
ill,  through 
I)  hoped  in 
by  fidelity, 
immediate 
ihe  will  b« 

oy  with  a 
nd  glancei 
lights  hei 

iasant  snr* 
oom,  and 

ever  fails, 
ten  cheit- 
>rder;  to 
ler  guest 
heard  of 
'  genuijr<! 

tiow  fine- 
feminine 
Dick  of 
with  the 

I     Vfhnt 

mhand- 
I  ctirioixf 


r^A^/'£i/}, 


J«l 


«^<>-he  ahjolutely  look,  .,  ,  ^ 

ivwa  ^  '^^«  -nha^a^scd   «   th.,  both   ., 

"  ^  scarcely  dared  hone  ••  ch 

'•"ad.n,tool     1  have  heard  iai  "''"■■•      ^""^    "■«^h   . 

">g  -wonderfully  well.  ■        *         "''•  '^°''""!!-     Yo„  are  loo" 

knoJiLe  ; '""'P""""  1  can  hones.l,   -  -„.,„      , , 

wnere  I  came  from  last  ?  "  '  - -'"'n.     Uo  yo, 

""g'ar  ret  been  fotd  ?  "  °"'  ""«■"  ""'"^  O"-  .     „"„"^ 
•"C  looks  at  h 

'•"^  compassion  in "h!  g^I'd^'  '<""«'""*  °*''">  -<">«h. 
"  Ves, "  he  .ays   "  j  iS?^  ''^kness  of  his  eyes.  *^ 

Thatoddlookmalcesr        "•" 

she  bear  i,  ?  -.        '""  '"^^  *""  »<>".«  hesitation-..  ho„  doe, 

"  ',.can  hardly  answer  that  question  "  h- 

V-      ^"a  has  left  Charhoi,  an!  """"P"'"!'  slow- 

«"'"  -".e  friends  i„   Ne      Vo'k     V  "''""'•  '  """'vc. 

'   "Tnble   t,loH.   ,„   h„.   '     °^''-     Naturally,  jt  has  been 

.ached.'  ""•    "-•   -s,er,  ever   were   n.o„.° 

"  l>eai  little  V«a  i  whv  •  f   •  u 
'»<■  -s  f    She  h: .  5,,,  f;  ;  ^^■;^  '•  i-7ous.  fra„k  „.,, 

^^»-^   l^ea^d;  but  under    t  a,l        1       """^'"^  "'■'"-  since.  J 
"ave  heart  beats,     l   shlij',.      ?  '""'  ">»  »»"■«  tntV 
«e  her.  ••  "'°"'''  ''ke.  I  shouU   greatly  lik^to 

^>"  '  '■'"ih!^    '  r'"  ''"""''''  *"  '""ch  in  V..... 

-^^'^-i.Lan^!l::t7oX';:;r■'•''r-'«^•■^ 

,,  J^'iy  Her  fancy?     She  takcf 


»»6 


TMAPPMD, 


W 


I* 


u\ 


I 


I 


I 


her  ooorage  in  both  hands,  and  looks  at  him,  a  nnfle  Ir.  tA# 
(awn  eyes,  a  flush  on  the  delicate  chetk. 

' '  Colonel  Ffrench,  do  tell  me — I  am  dpng  to  know  —art 
you  really  married  to  Vera  ?  " 

••  1  am  married  to  Vera,  and  have  been  foi  oyer  tii 
years." 

Here  is  silence.  The  wistful,  hazel  eyes  linger  on  hJi 
face,  and  ask  the  questions  her  lips  cannot  frame. 

"  All  that  is  too  long  a  story  for  to-day,"  he  says,  with  a 
•..lile.  "  Vera  shall  tell  you  everything  when  you  meet 
Now  let  me  ask  a  question  in  turn,  and  do  not  think  me  iii»> 
pertinent      Ycu  are  about  to  be  married  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  answers,  frankly,  but  flushing. 

"  To  Mr.  Ernest  Dane  ?  " 

**  To  Ernest  Dane.   Do  you  know  him.  Colonel  Ffrench  ? 

**  I — think  so.  I  am  not  sure.  I  fancy  ^t  was  he  wht 
called  u|X>n  me  once  at  Shaddeck  Light,  the  very  afternoon 
cf  your  arrival  at  Charlton.  He  was  at  St  Ann's  tliat  week« 
••ikS  he  not  ?  " 

'*  Yes,"  she  answers,  embarrassed  ;  '<  he  was  there.  But 
it  is  curious  he  has  never  spoken  of  knowing  you.  1  was  en* 
gaged  to  him  even  then,"  she  says,  in  a  very  low  voice. 

She  is  thinking,  and  so,  perhaps,  is  he,  that  but  for  that 
engagement  she  might  long  ago  have  been  Richard  Ffrench' s 
wife. 

"  We  were  poor,"  she  goes  on,  simply  ;  **  he  did  not  seem 
to  succeed  very  well  at  that  time,  and  my  poor  mother  wai 
*  greatly  opposed  to  hitu.  So  our  engagement  was  a  strict 
secret.  He  visited  me  once — one  evening  at  Charlton,  and 
from  that  night  until  a  fortnight  ago  we  never  met.  He  has 
been  in  business  out  West,  and  working  hard,  poor  fellow. 
I  have  been,  as  you  may  have  heard,  traveling  with  m  invalid 
lady  pretty  nearly  all  over  Europe.  It  is  oving  to  hei  gen- 
erous liberality  that  this  place  and  this  schov>l  are  mine — 
that  I  am   I  hop«   securely  establifih*id  for  'ife.     At  interval! 


•mfle  te  um> 

»  know->Ar« 
foi  ovei  til 
nger  on  hJi 

\ 

•m 

lays,  with  t 

you  meet 

link  Die  im- 


Ffrench  f 
as  he  wht 

f  afteraooQ 
tliat  week, 

liere.     But 
1  was  en* 
i^oice. 
ut  for  that 
1  Ffrench'f 

I  not  seem 
lother  wai 
%s  a  strict 
rlton,  and 
He  has 
•or  fellow, 
■in  invalid 
)  hei  gen- 
e  mine — 
:  iutervali 


*niest  and  T  luif  ^9 

P«e„ce,  .„,  I  ,,;,;^^  "-  -CU-.I.  „„.  ,„,„  ,^^J^ 
•«""  be  .named.     Vou  J,",  jf"" '"?•     ^"  '"'"'•ek.^ 

Before  lie  can  reply  ,h    I,     ,''"»«  Vera?"  '^^ 

'•"  "  visi.,  Mr.  K:„t  n.:„e"^  "''^  -'-«-.  «nd  „.h« 

'am  so  jtlad  |  -  Eleanor".,...    •  • 
^f  ''gluing.     ..No„      7;">  .  "-ng  quietly,  ^er  ,hoIe 
Colonel  Ffrnn^u        i  '  '"«<^f-     Ernesf "    k 

: ''.ere  JX-^S  r^^"^'^  '"  •- ^  C:* 

!-  «-  -rS  r,f  i?7  --  ^"  ->-.  re.. 
'-.manding,  co„fro„L« The  ,"1  h  t  '°'*"'^'  '"«'«'"«. 
•»»"  he  seek,  ?  Ae  ,,»„„  of  hi  L     J""^''    »"'  "  "  *, 

tlonde,  J,„„areary  whiskers  L^  '  "'  *"  *•   "on, 

7"  a  change  inL::  t!;:,"?  ""  '"-  'o"  "lone  «2 

V^l'  'ace,  no»v  that  its  hirsute  dl    **°!"'«»k  "*«  woman- 

'Wr.   Dane  is  deadly  „ale     i.  r  •  u^ 
;>-  "f.  and  fan  fron  I'^^J^'f  «^"'  !«'«•     ««  biw 
<  nec-the  irresolute   lins   ,r     I?  ^'  """'  "'entless   mv 
f'f 'one,.,  and  sh.  vs  it'      '''"'"'•     **'•  0«e  1,  fcorriSj 

"  I— I    think  not      i /   *i,-  . 

■«e.     1  have  never  met  ColS  pv"""""  "'  ""«  "^ 
"  Vour  memory  faU.    M      V.      *""*  '"''°'«-" 

fi«^-  .ponhim.  "Caliton*^,!  t  "'*  ^'  i«"ov.l^ 
»"er  s,x  years  ago.  when  you  hT^? '*"^"  •ft'^^ooZ 
'''•.-Shaddeck  ]  i^ht  -      ^      ^""""^  •»•  br  .  W«t  in  .^ 


I 


i^ 


TMArrMD, 


./;..r  ■■•'■;> 


|kK| 

;- ^  t^ 

fv.! 

\\'i    '' 

.'..  i\,t 

"^Wr' 

;;'"f 

:■  ■■■.»:i 

:T 

1 

1  ■  :| 

^f 

5:*; 

Mr.  Dane,  still  white  to  the  lips,  makei  the  effoit^  an4 
manages  to  recall  it.  But  his  pallor  is  so  great,  his  alain 
so  apparent,  his  ernbar  assment  hO  intense  and  real,  that 
Eleanor  looks  from  one  to  the  other,  in  sinlden  terror  and 
<Hsmay.     Before  she  can  speak,  Colonel  Ffrench  rises. 

**1  will  call  to-morrow,"  he  says,  and  once  again  that  pro- 
foundly pitpng  look  is  in  his  eyes.  **I  leave  New  Orleani 
XL  the  afternoon,  but  I  will  call  and  see  you  befoie  1  go." 

He  departs.  As  the  street-door  closes  behuid  him,  a  raan 
iooks  out  stealthily  from  behind  some  espaliers. 

"  Well,  colonel,  what  d'ye  think  ?  "  a  voice  asks. 

''It  is  all  right,  Daggit,  you  have  your  man.  He  will 
give  you  no  trouble.  Do  not  approach  him  until  he  is  well 
away  from  the  house.     The  lady  must  not  be  alarmed." 

He  goes,  and  Detective  Daggit  resumes  his  watch.  It  is 
a  long  one.  The  sun  sets,  the  night  falls,  the  moon  risei 
long  befp-e  Mr.  Ernest  Dane  quits  the  house. 

But  he  comes  at  last,  walking  rapidly,  looking  about  hina 
nervously,  and  still  startlingly  pale.  Mr.  Daggit  follows 
with  the  tread  of  a  cat,  shod  at  once  with  the  shoes  of  silencn 
and  swiftness.  A  square  or  two  is  passed,  the  jeminary  is 
out  of  sight,  then  at  the  corner  of  a  quiet  street  Detective 
Daggit  lays  his  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  Mr.  Ernest  Dane ; 
lays  it  so  suddenly,  so  sharply,  with  so  strong  and  steely  • 
clasp,  that  it  extorts  a  cry  from  the  startled  man. 

"  None  o'  that,"  says  Mr.  Detective  Daggit ;  11  not 
';!  a  mite  of  good,  and  will  only  raise  a  crowd,  which  woulf^ 
be  unpleasant,  I  should  think,  to  a  gentleman  of  yom  fir. , 
feclin's.  None  o*  that,  either!"  as  Mr.  Dane  instinct/Vely 
jtiikes  out  to  wrench  himself  free.  *'  I'm  the  strongest  mai^ 
of  the  two,  and  if  you  do  do  it,  why  IVe  a  lerem-shootef 
here,  an(5  by  the  Lord  above  !  Ill  shoot  you  like  a  mad  d(^ 
^*fore  you  get  round  the  corner." 

*  \\Tiat  do  you  nieai  ?     Who  are  you  ?     Why  is  thi»  out- 
rakt?*'    lemand*   Mr    Ernest  Dane.     The  moonlight^  th« 


^1  the  eSoit^  ui4 
>  great,  his  aiA-ra 
se  and  real,  that 
LKlden  terror  and 
rench  rises. 
:e  again  that  pro- 
ive  New  Orleani 
befoie  1  go." 
Jhind  him,  a  man 
ers. 

:e  asks, 
man.     He  wih 
until  he  is  well 
?  alarmed." 
lis  watch.    It  is 
the  moon  risei 

««• 

>king  about  hira 
Daggit  follows 
shoes  of  silence 
the  ceminary  is 
treet  Detective 
Ernest  Dane  : 
g  and  steely  ; 
an. 

:git;  II  not 
1,  which  woulH 
n  of  yom  hr. ; 
e  instinct/Vely 
strongest  mas^ 
iercK-shootef 
ke  a  raaa  dog 

hy  is  this  out- 
oonlightj  th« 


^^^^MD. 


389 


"'»  vo,«  choices  and  brelkft'he       '  ."'^^  "«  "•«" 

^'"■ve  Daggit  of  nL  York      VVh     "">."     "'''>'•  I'"'  "- 

because  you've  robbed  and  kin.  .       "  '^"  """-^S^  '     *Vhy 

;<>  -e  What  an  en.igh./n^d  /  ;''rr  "f '  ''""  -'-^S' 

-» ->'  about  it,  Mr.  Kme«  o/ne  /!'",  °™  '"'-•"o-c.tuen! 

He  makes  a  sudd,.n  ^  'anshawe  I  " 

^u'.  be^re  he  hast^VnTZ^r  "■•*  ^^^  "-e-^ 

Xr-----co.r;::s--:rL?^^ 

«>n«aft«   V.U.  would  y'oul    h    t  *™"'"'  'Ve  had  X 
•econd  -nan  appears  as  if  h  *•   '"""^ '  M<=failan  :        a 

;«^'     ^afe  bi„'d:saf:'fi:dlS:dT"     "^"-"'^hc.rj 
•housand  dollars  at  .take      It    \  "  '""''  "•'*^="  »'  ^V 
ci.ck  .  that's  o„_„„,  ,Coi^  Tr-  '''■  "-""^bawe-- 
;"«  X  can  lovely  and  cLtnl^""'  '''''•' '     ^^ '  'bae. 
gether  n,  ,,eace.     Take    "'""f^-now  we  can  joe  on  to. 

"-''  find  .e.n  too  ^^  mI  t"  ''^'''  '^^     '  bope  y^ 
'o-r -rists  on  an,,  ac^ou..^.         ""'"""''     ^  -°"'dn'^  nm 

Handcuffed,  and  between  ht. 
••^ks  on,  livid  tenor  cTlverv  eat  ""r """'"=  *»  ''««'b,  he 

",A^k   pardon  for  bein^  „  nT"  "'}'"  ''"'*^">'  f^« 
j'-'.bave  to..>.tpone    L   wed',:/';'  "'""'   "•^^.  •>« 
«'•  f-rnes,  Dane  Lanshawe      it-   f"^  ^°""  =•  '■«'«' X^ars, 
:""'>■  "'"-••^  »eeks  since  your  ft""""""""  ^'"'"'  '"o 
neatly  done,  Mr.  Kanshawellait  a       "''   """"^  '     "    -=" 

by-r;  br"r: ""'  r"  '^•^  ^^^  ™^-  ';:r::"'-p« 

7  «.u  oy.     You  stole  in  about  th^      •_,..  ^        ^nnoce-.ice 
-  «  --me,  I  »y-.nd':°";il'';'^;^-'tbe  ni«h.- 

Closet  m  your  wife'. 


J90 


TRAFPED. 


room.     As  soon  as  she  was  asleep  you  stole  out,  pocketeo 

the  jewels,  and  in  some  way  ANoke  her  up.  She  struggled 
with  y')ii — wait  a  minute,  can't  you  1 — tore  off  the  crape, 
pulled  a  handful  from  your  whiskers — beautiful  whiskers, 
Mr.  Fanshawe — f  wonder  at  you  for  shavin*  'em  off.  You 
broke  away,  got  out,  *nd  made  straight  for  Shaddeck  LigbL 
You  dropped  a  few  hltle  things  there,  but  never  mind,  I'l! 
let  you  have  the  picture  again  when  sentence  is  passed. 
If  11  be  a  comfort  to  you,  mebbe,  up  in  Sing  Sing  or  Auburn. 
And  you  come  back  for  the  funeral !  Now  thafs  what  I 
call  showin'  the  highest-toned  sort  of  feelin'  and  respect  for 
the  dead,  and  all  that,  and  very  well  you  looked,  Mr.  Fan- 
shawe,  in  your  mournin'  clothes.  A.nd  then  you  come  down 
here  and  make  love  to  the  school-marm— oh  I  darn  it,  wait 
a  minute  ! — and  are  goin'  to  marry  her,  too,  in  a  fortnight 
in  the  most  honorable  manner.  I've  seen  a  good  many 
sharp  games  in  my  time,  and  met  r.  good  many  sharp  cards, 
but  if  ever  I  met  a  sharper,  o;  see  a  sharper,  then  I'm  ever- 
lastin'ly  darned  I  But  others  is  sharp,  too,  and  Joe  Daggit's 
one  of  'em,  though  he  says  it  as  hadn't  ought  to.  And  IVe 
got  you,  my  buck,  and  I  mean  to  keep  you,  and  I've  got  the 
five  thousand  reward,  and  I  mean  to  keep  that  /  And  we'll 
send  you  up  for  half  a  dozen  of  years  at  hard  labor,  by  the 
living  1.  ord  I  " 

.^s  Mr.  Ernest  Dane  Fanshawe  passes  with  Detective 
Daggit  on  this  moonlight  night  forevtr  from  this  story,  it 
may  be  mentioned  here  that  Mr.  Da^^git  was  among  the  pro- 
phets, and  that  at  this  moment  Mr.  F<inshawe,  the  elegant, 
the  languid,  the  handsome,  the  super- refmed,  is  doing  the 
State  some  service  in  the  pleasant  rural  village  of  Sing  Sing. 
No  doubt  you  read  the  trial — it  produced  a  great  sensation, 
and  is  still  fresh  in  your  memory.  The  reason  of  Afr.  Dane's 
change  of  name  came  out  with  many  other  interesting  itemi 
of  that  gentleman's  dashing  career.     It  ti^as  the  naine  of  a 


out,  pocketea 
She  stmggled 
'ff  the  crape, 
ful   whiskers, 
?m  off.     You 
ddeck  Light 
er  mind,  I'l! 
e  is  passed. 
J  or  Auburn. 
thafs  what  I 
1  respect  for 
?d,  Mr.  Fan^ 

come  down 
darn  it,  wait 

a  fortnight 
good  many 
sharp  cards, 
;n  I'm  ever- 
oe  Daggit's 
And  I've 
I've  got  the 

And  we'll 
bor,  by  tho 


Hctectivc 
Is  story,  it 
ig  the  pro- 
e   elegant, 
doing  the 
Sing  Sing, 
sensation, 
fr.  Dane's 
ing  items 
^aiae  of  a 


SBADDECK  UGO^, 


*»*«enial  grandparent    who  h    i  .  /"  ^^* 

^k  him  to  Eipe,  lXt:l^l^r  ''^  ^^^^y  which 
disagreeable  duns.     He  has  ll??      "  '""^^^  '^  «^»Pe 
•"^J-g,  i,  is  understood J^a'dCt    f  u'"'"^  ^^ade^shj^. 
Pathyof  all   the  ,ou„g  lad   ,  i„  ,h       ^^^ -'^-P-ad  syn. 
handson,e,  poor  fellowfand  xl  inte     . '^"'''^-     "^  ^*»  « 
P«|  .o  sentence  him  for  six  ye^    r^'"^'  ^"^  "  -^  'ur,  , 
^'  --ply  taking  his  own  w^f^jewj;:"'^"^^"^  '"  '"'^  ^*^ 

/  '  •  •  •  • 

'or  Eleanor.     Well  th  * 

t.n„o.  be  told,  some  griefrthaTrnf '"''  '""''  """8"  *« 
'»  Pa-nt.  So  far  as  to  world"!  LT  '  ""'''  '^'  P°-«"«»' 
<=««'- to  an  end  i„  .he  hZll^°T ^T"'""'^'  ''<''  »« 
»bly  distressed,  broke  to  h^  th  ™  ""^  '''■'^"'*-  "'  ""er- 
«o  on  with  her  life-work,  briver  rin  """  '"'' ''«'  «^«  «»<• 
-Oman  Heaven  has  .»,^e  her  ^7  ^^'  '°  *"  "«J.  "he  >n,e 
'^«  '■^'^  -<.H  "the  .o^lLHetsrSr  '^•^  o. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

»"*«>».. CK      l.,OHT. 

fiUSTY  November  day      f>      ., 
■^"Hvn  drifts  .hroul     L    f       "r"**"  « '^<' 
fore  the  .,„<,,  ^  ^f„  ,  ""'  ;^«'»  of  St.  Ann's  be- 

;*•"•"»  iik.  the  lusty  yo;:,g^'„  t  i      ?''  ^"'  "'^-''  """ 
'7'»  the  tree-tops,  tha:  rattfes "L  ,     ',    "'  *'^'"*-  '^d 
»  f-  months  ago  hung  hla'     !,  r*^^  ^'""-^^^'^^  ""ich 
^«  of  roses,   that  flings  dustl  1 '  T?  '^"°P'''8  <='"»• 
«'  the  unwary,  and  then  Z„„i  ^*""^^''-  '»'"  •»'«  tyc 

to  Sha,Jdeck  Bay.  """""'"^  '»  gus.v  glee.  «ie.  „« 

»« i.  the  nuddl.  rf  u^  .ft,,.,,,,,^ 

"  voen  Richard  Ffieack 


«■  ./• 


392 


SHADDECK  UGBT, 


•urns  out  of  the  great  elm  avenue  of  Ch  arlton  Place,  and  pro 
pares  for  a  windy  walk  to  town.  He  only  came  yesterdaji 
and  departs  again  this  evening.  His  work  is  done,  hii 
name  is  cleared,  the  real  culprit  lies  in  prison — Fate  itself 
cannot  hold  him  and  his  wife  apart  longer.  Never  liai 
debonair  Captain  Dick,  in  the  brighiest,  most  8i)irited,  i>.oal 
sanguine  days  of  his  youth,  looked  more  hopeful,  more  buov 
antly  happy  than  does  the  ex  cavany  colonel  to-day.  He 
is  going  for  Vera ;  no  misunderstanding,  no  foolish  scruple 
shall  keep  them  asunder  longer.  She  has  all  the  pride  ot 
— a  fallen  angel  where  he  is  concerned,  but  love  shall  tri 
umph  over  pride,  and  in  his  heart  he  knows  as  well  as  he 
lives  that  Vera  cares  for  him  yet.  So — free,  cleared,  trium- 
phant, rich,  loving,  hopeful — he  gets  over  the  ground  at  hii 
usual  swinging  pace,  whistling  cheerily  as  he  goes,  "  My 
love  is  but  a  lassie  yet."  He  has  discovered  this  much . 
when  Vera  left  Charlton  she  went  direct  to  her  oU  friend 
Mrs.  Trafton,  and  has  remained  with  her  ever  since.  Before 
this  time  to-morrovsr  he  will  be  at  Mrs.  Trafton's  door  to 
claim  his  own,  through  life  and  beyond  death  if  he  may. 

How  It  blows  '  and  how  the  great  stripped  trees  wrestle 
with  the  blast  m  a  fierce  embrace  I  He  bends  his  powerful 
figure  before  it,  as  it  comes  swooping  down  upon  him,  Hing- 
ing spiteful  siroccos  of  lust  in  his  eyes,  and  sending  the 
blood  bounding  througl  every  strong  vein.  His  spirits,  al 
ready  high,  rise  higher  as  it  bntiets  him.  It  is  like  strong 
wine,  this  exhilarating  autumn  gale,  with  the  saltncss  of  the 
lea,  the  fragrance  of  the  pine  woods  in  its  breath  at  once. 

The  tide  is  out,  as  h('  turns  into  the  shore  road,  the  long 
black  bar  is  bare  that  leads  to  Siiaddeck  Light,  aiui  crossing 
Ik  he  sees  Daddy.  The  old  den  looks  battered,  wind-blown, 
weather-beaten  and  tumble-down.  He  has  half  a  mind  to 
cross  over,  and  take  a  look  at  it  before  he  goes — he  has  not 
been  there  for  many  a  year.  As  he  approaches  Daddy  espiei 
him,  and  comes  to  a  halt 


' 


SMADLMCK  UGHT, 


391 


nd  pro 
sterdajf 
me,  hii 
te  itself 

;d,  i..o8f 
e  buov 
IV.     He 
scrupV 
)ride  ot 
►hall  th- 
ill as  he 
1,  triuin- 
id  at  hii 
IS,   *'  My 
<;  much . 
d  friend 
Before 
door  to 
ay. 

wrestle 
powerful 
111,  iiing- 
Iding  the 
irits,  al 
|e  slrong 
3s  of  th<» 
nee. 
the  long 
I  crossing 
-blown, 
Itnind  to 
hat  not 
ly  espiei 


*  Hallo  I "  cheerily  says  Colonel  Ffrench. 

**  Hallo  1 "  Daddy  stolidly  returns ;  and  then  Daddy  stands  on 
ttie  other  foot  and  eyes  his  master.  **  Yer  ain't  seen  her,  hev  yer  ? 
Yer  don't  know  she's  here,  do  yer  ?  "  he  vaguely  inquires. 

"Seen  her?     What  her?" 

"Yer  didn't  hear  she'd  come  back,  did  yer  ?  Said  so  her 
•elf.  Told  me  not  to  tell  nuther.  A-goin'  back  in  the  keen 
to-night.     Come  to  take  a  look.     She's  thar  yet." 

Daddy  jerks  his  thumb  over  his  shoulder  in  the  directioB 
of  the  ocean.  But  Colonel  Ffrench  begins  to  understand 
His  dark  face  flushes  and  lights. 

"Are  you  speaking  of  Miss  Vera ?"  he  asks. 

"Ah  I "  says  Daddy,  nodding — "  her.  She's  thar  yit 
Come  to  take  a  last  look  at  the  dear  old  place.  That's  what 
the  said.  Blessed  if  he  ain't  gone  ! "  says  Daddy,  as  his 
master  turns  from  him,  and  in  a  minute  is  crossing  the 
bar.  A  dim  perception  of  the  truth  stirs  vaguely  in  the  fog 
of  Daddy's  mind.  "  Blessed  if  he  ain't  goin'  ter  her  I  Blessed 
if  he  ain't  sweet  on  her  ! "  says  Daddy  to  himself,  as  he  lum 
bers  heavily  away. 

She  is  sitting  on  the  little  sea-wall,  her  fingers  locked  to- 
gether, her  hands  lying  Ustlessly  on  her  black  lap.  Her  long 
crape  vail  is  thrown  back  ;  the  clear  face  is  like  a  star  set  in 
jet.  The  great,  dark  eyes,  the  loveliest  the  wide  earth  holds, 
this  man  thinks,  have  all  the  sadness  of  farewell  in  their 
depths.  She  hears  his  footsteps,  and  turns  ;  then  rises  and 
stands,  pale,  startled,  surprised,  before  him.  But  a  light 
comes  into  her  eyes — the  quick  lignt  of  irrepressible  gladness 
and  welcome.     And  he  sees  it. 

"  Vera ! "  he  exclaims,  and  holds  out  both  hands. 

"Captain  Dick  1 "  she  answers,  and  gives  him  hers.  The 
Mame,  the  look,  the  manner,  have  swept  away  six  long  years, 
and  it  is  the  Captain  Dick  of  Charlton  (*ays,  her  hero,  that  ii 
here.  It  is  but  for  an  instant ;  then  she  laughs  £untljr,  ao^ 
draws  away  her  hands. 

17* 


594 


SHADDRCK  UiiMT, 


':\ 


<*  ]  thought  for  a  moment  I  was  a  little  girl  again.  Yo« 
looked  so  like  tlie  Captain  Dick  ot  those  far-off  dayii 
But  I  thought  you  were  in  New  York." 

"And  1  \}iiow^\\. you  were  in  New  York." 

He  seats  himself  beside  her,  on  the  stone  wall,  and  lookt 
with  loving,  longing,  happy  eyes  into  her  half  shrinking  face. 

"  I  was  in  New  York  ;  I  have  been  ever  since  1  left——** 

*  Why  did  you  leave  ?"  he  breaks  in.  "  That  was  cruel, 
Vera.  1  went  back  early  next  morning,  full  of  all  1  had  to 
fay,  all  one  heart  could  hold — and  you  were  gone  1 " 

She  looks  away  from  him,  and  out  to  where  the  angrf 
red  of  the  sunset  beams  through  gathering  clouds. 

"It  was  best  I  should  go — it  was  inevitable,  and  Mri, 
Trafton's  house  has  ever  been  a  second  home.  I  went  to 
aer  in  my  trouble  and  my  loneliness,  and  she  was  good  to 
aie,  better  than  1  can  say.  Colonel  Ffrench,  1  have  read  it  all 
— the  dreadful  truth,  that  vindicates  you,  and  condemns  that 
wretched  man.  And  I  hardly  think  it  surprised  me,  although 
it  was  a  profound  shock.  For  she  loved  him — oh  !  my  dear 
little  Dot  I  she  loved  him.  I  always  knew  him  to  be  weak 
and  wicked,  but  of  this  I  feel  sure — he  never  intended  to  go 
beyond  the  stealing  of  the  jewels — he  never  intended  to 
irjure  her,'' 

**  No,  he  came  to  «iteal,  not  to  murder.  If  she  had  onlj 
Bot  awakened     But  why  should  you  ever  think  of  him  ?  " 

"  I  think  of  Eleanor,  poor,  noble,  great-hearted  EleaccMT  1 
L>}}e  haunts  me  like  a  ghost.     Some  day  1  hope  to  see  her,*' 

"  I  have  ventured  to  promise  that  much  in  your  name,"  he 
b&yn,.     **  You  Will  let  me  keep  my  word,  will  you  not  ?  " 

**  I  sh:ill  see  her,  certainly,"  Vera  answers.  *'  In  a  week 
or  two  I  start  with  Mrs.  Trafton  to  spend  the  winter  in  Flor- 
ida, and  xve  shall  take  New  Orleans  on  our  way.  She  is  fall- 
ing into  a  dacUne,  Mrs.  Trafton,  and  has  been  ordered  South. 
I  go  with  her  as  companion.  That  is  why  I  am  here,  I  havi 
engine  to  take  a  last  l«K>k  at  poor  Dora's  grave." 


SHADDECK  U(i9T, 


39S 


dayi. 


1  looki 

Ft -" 

s  crael, 
had  to 

e  anfcry 

id  Mri. 

went  to 
good  to 
ead  it  all 
tnns  that 
ilthough 
my  dear 
3e  weak 
ed  to  go 
nded  to 

ad  onljf 
Im?" 

Illeat  or  I 
her/' 

line,"  he 

1?" 
a  week 

lin  Flor- 
is  fall- 
South. 
IkJiY< 


**  And  you  hink  I  will  lc*i  yon  go  ?  '*  h«?  says.  "  Vera,  tunj 
lound,  look  at  iv.n,  in^ierui  of  tlie  akv  and  tin:  water,  and  tell 
me,  if  you  can,  ho.v  long  this  is  to  ^o  c  u.  Koi  six  yeari 
you  haver  beui  Djy  wile,  in  name.  In  ail  ttut  lime  wc  have 
been  held  a()ari,  by  my  own  act  in  the  first  years,  by  misunder- 
standings and  mutual  pride  in  these  last,  it  is  time  a'l  that 
should  end.  I  love  my  wife,  I  want  ray  wife,  and  1  mean  to 
have  her.  No,"  as  she  flashes  upon  him  one  of  the  old  im 
perious  glances,  and  tries  to  free  her  hands,  '^  1  am  not  to 
be  annihilated  even  by  the  fire  of  your  eyes,  my  Vera,  eyei 
.  have  thought  the  most  beautiful  on  earth,  the  truest,  the 
dearest,  ever  since  1  saw  them  first.  1  know  you  cared  for 
me  a  little  once ;  1  think  you  care  for  me  a  little  still ;  I 
know  that  I  love  you  with  all  the  strength  of  my  he,^**^  In 
my  trouble  you  came  to  me,  you  offered  to  stay  with  me,  to 
be  my  v  L'"e.  Vera,  I  claim  that  promise  now — 1  claim  you. 
I  am  going  to  Cuba  in  a  week — not  to  rejoin  the  army. 
1  have  done  with  that,  but  political  purposes,  all  the  same. 
Vera,  will  you  come  with  me  to  Cuba,  instead  of  to  Florida, 
with  Mrs.  Trafton  ?  " 

She  looks  up,  and  the  dark,  sweet  eyes  that  meet  his  are 
hill  of  tears. 

**  1  will  go  with  yon  to  the  end  of  the  wot  Id,"  she  aar^wers 

m  *  m  *  *  *  * 

There  has  been  a  hia^ls  here,  you  understand.  The  wind 
shouts  as  if  in  derision  at  this  pair  of  lovers,  and  the  sea, 
dashing  higher  and  higher  over  the  rocks,  sends  its  flaky 
spray  in  their  faces. 

*  And  it  is  not  from  any  sense  of  duty,  such  as  sent  y<M 
♦o  n:e  at  the  hotel,  but  because " 

*•  liecause  I  love  you,"  says  Vera,  speaking  the  words  foi 
the  first  time  in  her  life ;  *'  because  I  have  loved  you  fironi 
the  fery  first," 


^ 


SHADDECK  UGMT. 


The  tide  is  rising  ;  if  this  ecstatic  pair  linger  much  1  jnge^^ 
thef  will  have  a  chance  to  pass  the  night  tite-A-tiie  on  the 
lea-wall.  The  crimson  and  fiery  orange  of  the  strong  sunset 
is  paling  rapidly  before  grayness  of  coming  night  and  gather* 
ing  storm.  The  wind  still  shrieks  about  them  like  a  wind 
gone  mad ;  sea-gulls  whirl  and  whoop  startlingly  near ;  the 
flashing  spray  leaps  higher  and  higher. 

**  The  tide  is  rising,"  he  says,  *•  let  us  go.  If  we  sit  here 
lunger  we  will  have  to  stay  here  till  morning,  and  one  night 
you  may  think  quite  enough  to  spend  at  Shaddeck  Light ; 
although  I  shall  look  back  to  that  night  with  the  deepest 
gratitude,  for  to  it  1  owe  the  happiness  of  my  life." 

He  offers  his  hand  and  she  takes  it,  and  so,  clinging  to  it, 
passes  over  the  wet,  weedy,  slippery  kelp  and  shingle  to  the 
shore.  There,  as  by  one  imi)ulse,  both  pause  and  look  back. 
Before  them  lies  the  new  life,  behind,  the  old,  and  they  linger 
for  a  second  to  bid  it  farewell. 

One  last  yellow  gleam  of  sunset  breaks  from  behind  the 
wind-blown  clouds  and  Ughts  palely  the  solitary  little  brown 
cot.  Falling  fast  to  decay,  with  broken  windows,  hanging 
doors,  settling  roof,  it  stands  waiting  for  its  death-blow,  in 
forsaken  and  bleak  old  age — a  desolate  picture.  While  thev 
loiik  the  light  fades,  swift  dark  less  fails,  and  night  and  lon» 
Ifneu  wrap  Shaddeck  Light 


Tsa   C3?^ 


the 


NEW  AND  SUCCESSFUL  BOOKS 

bnngs  out  the  m«n^  5  "'s  character.  Yet  aJ  f  hi  *  "«hten- 
absoTut.  disreir^T^'^^^^tJesscouraire  hia  mill  '*"?^.  ^»"»«  He 
i^»  fertility  S;!,^^  °^,d«'  i^'^s  wonTrfu  c>?ni  w'^  ^^"^t^''  ^s 
in  spite  of  ^uS vos'°T^^^r»'  ^^^"^^"3^0^^  ^  ^«^"or, 
pat  and  brav^  8?^a'l  ^V^  '^«^'  « '"^Z  S  i^^.  admiration 
lesson  of  the  sToVHs  ono^^r"'"^"'  ^^^'"^"1  a^nd^^^ri'!?  l^  '"^^ 
ment  that  is  fina'L  v?i^f  ^^J^^'  ^^^ribution  inX'     ,  f^«S»^*t 

BECAUSE  OF  POWER  ' *''^ 

By  Ella  Stryker  Mud..     ,, , 

of  life  glo™'  Teve^:  S.r^h'"  "'"•  '"St'sVr"'?!''"'  "»? 
„  by  the  quickeniny^!Z?T'  V"?  atmosphere  is  lit. i  .  "P"k 
Haa^lto„V.  Ma^il«rvrcS-^,?f  humanit^.  "  "  "'al-.,eetr5fi^ 

THE  ROOM  WITH  TWT.  r,- 
By  Rotaad  B.Sj°f.  ""^=  DOOR 

M  he  w^te  death  it^Tf"^"'''?  ''"""eationrat  Sin^c,?'""-  ^^*^ 

theLittleDoor''      A     u?°®"^-     Author  of    "Th.  r> 
absorbing  m^'^er  irK^^^^?^^  ^^nianee  deaJi^^l^^"^  "^^^ 

jraphc  picture  of  oo„r/nft  "^^""lY  «P«"-^  in  Naples   ^d  .T  '*'*'' 
cloth  bo2n^"°SUi-«  1,t  '^^oJ^^C'tiiif '  r2i'^ 


JOHN  HSNRY.    (125th  Thousand) 

By  Hugh  McHugh.  " '  Joiui  Henry  '  Ima  just ' butted'  ite  way  in 
between  the  literary  bars  and  capcrc  d  over  the  book  countera  tB 
the  tune  of  12,000  copies  before  ita  publiuiiurs  could  recover  ihtdr 
breath. 

"  Every  page  is  as  trtchy  as  a  bar  from  a  popular  song. 

"  The  slang  is  as  cor  ect,  original  and  smart  as  the  newest  hand- 
shake from  London. 

"In  the  lottory  o''  humorous  books  'John  Henry'  seems  to  ap- 
proximate the  capital  prize." — ;V.  Y.  Journal. 

"All  who  liave  laugh(^d  over  'Billy  Baxter'  will  heartily  enjoy 
this  book." — T/ie  Buokseller,  Newsdealer  and  Stationer.  Cloth 
bound,  75  cents. 


POWIf  THE  LINE  WITH  JOHN  HENRY.  (80th  Thou- 
sand) 

By  the  author  of  "  John  Henry,"  etc.  This  is  the  second  of  the 
"John  Henry"  books  and  quickly  followed  its  predecessor  along 
the  high  road  of  succesa.  The  story  of  "At  the  Races"  has 
already  grown  to  be  a  Classic  in  Slang.  It  is  brimful  of  human 
nature,  and  is  amusing  in  the  highest  degree.  Illustrated, 
attractively  bound,  75  cents. 


irS  UP  TO  YOU.     (50th  Thousand) 

By  the  author  of  "  John  Henry,"  "  Dow^n  the  Line,"  etc.  A  bright, 
new  story  by  Hugh  McHugh,  detailing  the  adventures  of  his 
widely  known  hero,  who,  after  a  spirited  courtship,  is  married 
and  tries  to  settle  down.  His  efforts  along  these  lines  are  de- 
tailed with  much  humor.  This  will  be  one  continuous  story. 
Illustrated,  attractively  bound,  75  cents. 


BACK  TO  THE  WOODS.     (40th  Thousand) 

By  the  author  of  "John  Henry,"  "  Down  the  Line,"  "It's  Up  to 
You,"  etc.  This  new  "John  Henry"  book  is  really  the  best  of 
the  four.  It  is  a  complete  story  in  seven  chapters,  further  por- 
traying the  fortunes  and  misfortunes  of  John  Henry,  Clara  Jane, 
Uncle  Peter,  Bunch,  Aunt  Martha  and  Tacks.  Illustrations  by 
Gordon  Grant.    Cloth  bound,  75  cents. 


OUT  FOR  THE  COIN.     (First  Edition  Sept.,  1903) 

By  the  author  of  "John  Henry,"  "Down  the  Lino  with  John 
Henry,"  "  It's  Up  to  You,"  "  Back  to  the  Woods,"  which  com- 
bined, have  reacned  a  sale  of  over  240,000  copies.  "  Out  for  the 
Coin"  is  another  "Crackerjack  Volume  of  Comedy"  in  which 
John  Henry  and  his  delightful  friends  find  a  new  field  for  their 
stirring  and  amusing  adventures.  Illustrated  from  drawings  by 
Gordon  Grant    Cloth,  gilt  top,  75  cents. 


ite  way  in 
counters  f 
cover  ii^ir 


nrest  hand- 
bills to  ap- 

tily  enjoy 
•er.    Cloth 


th  Thou- 

)nd  of  the 
ssor  along 
aces"  haa 
of  human 
iustrated, 


A  bright, 
res  of  hii 
8  married 
!s  are  de- 
>us  story. 


t's  Up  to 
le  best  of 
ther  por- 
ara  Jane, 
itions  by 


3) 

1th  John 
ich  eom- 
it  for  the 
in  which 
for  their 
wrings  by 


Jt^ionlrt'Wi'.^  ot?t'^'  ^^''^^n  says.    «i,  . 
Hume's  bust  sLvr.;.*  ^"^*'»nat  on.     Thi«-J«*    •  '*  *>«  «a 

^itscon^trtd^il^^^^^^^^^^  noted  f^rThe  ^  ^''^ 

*>ound,  $1 .25.        ^"^  ^^'"  o^  working  out  detail  »,o*°«^""V 

"••       -I'aio^clot^ 

A  SPECKLED  BIPn     ,« 
B7  Augusta  EvansT?'     (fourth  Edition) 

^orkV  bfSre  "Jhl^'^''^"-     ^2.5th  thousand      "U  • 

fleasons.     £    wm     '"'*"^'  ^^  the  '  best  *  JMn.    '*  'f  *  P'^ce  of 

.admirers  of  'S^''i^,!i^^»<^  ^["  be  welcomed  bvS\T  *"^  ^ble 

Journal  '^'"''^  "wk  of  fiction "     f     ■ 

"How  absolutely  .^.,  «  ^    ,  -£«»»««.  Coanir 

P^'-      'S-oW^^&^fe.    I2m^l^g«bo!jS  «,d  co«, 

tons'  wTlJ  find  in  it  ih^^i''''  ^P^n  the  paffes  of  'T»,    /. 
author's  thirtv  nw^    *  elements  which  h&vfZ^I  ^^®  Cromp- 
^ord,  to  SL»  1  ^*°"^«  and  carried  W  .^"^^  P<lP"^ar  this 
"Her  no^rfet^bX'^,"     ^-^-'^^^^^^^^  ^'"^^^^S 

'S'oSfLS^Boi^^^;    («>W  Edition) 

lustrations,  covTd°s\^?J'J"''"'  "^'"^can.  '"'°'' "«  »  "hole 

THE  DAY  OF  PROSPERITY  ,  v  • 

to  Come  ^^«ITY,  a  Vision  of  the  Centurr 

By  Paul  Devinne     A  v  *  vj 
Uoth  bound.  $1.50.     '      ^  '^unianly  sympathetic  char^ie,^ 


NORMAK  HOLT,  a  Story  of  the  Army  of  the  Cumber- 
land 

By  Oeneral  (C«pt.)  Charles  King.  "No  moro  charming  hisiorit 
war  story  iiaa  ever  been  written.  It  is  Captain  King's  best,  anct 
hf-aring,  hh  it  does,  on  the  gn>at  battle  of  Mission  Uidgft,  althougk 
ih'.  story  i.4  woven  in  fiction,  it  adds  an  invaluable  record  of  that 
gigantic  contest  between  the  two  pn»at  armies. 

"The  characters  are  real,  their  emotions  natural,  and  the  romance 
that  is  interwoven  is  (ielightfu).  It  is  wholesome  and  one  of 
General  King's  best,  if  not  his  best,  book." — N.  Y.  Journal. 

"  From  tho  first  chapter  to  tlie  hwt  pa^e  the  interest  of  the  reader 
never  fags.  CU'neral  King  bus  written  no  more  brilliant  or  stir- 
ring novel  than  '  Norman  Holt.'*' — N.  Y.  Press.  lUustratedi 
cloth  bound,  $1.25. 

THE    IRON   BRIGADE,  a  Story  of  the  Army  of  the 
Potomac.     (Fourth  Edition) 

By  General  Charles  King.  Illustrations  by  R.  F.  Zogbaum.  Ib 
choosing  the  subject  ot  this  story  Genertl  King  has  taken  one  of 
the  most  gallant  and  heroic  organizations  of  the  Civil  War,  and 
woven  around  it  many  intensely  interesting  historic  scenes. 
Sketches  of  Lincoln,  Stanton,  Grant,  Meade  and  other  prominent 
characters  of  the  time  lend  much  to  the  holding  power  of  ths 
"tory.     Illustrated.     Cloth  bound,  $1.50. 

DENSLOW'S    NIGHT    BEFORE    CHRISTMAS,    (aotk 
Thousand) 

The  old  classic  story,  illustrated  by  W.  W.  Denslow.  Here  is  th« 
best  Christmas  story  ever  told.  The  man  is  yet  to  be  bom  who 
can  write  anything  to  supersede  what  has  made  St.  Nicholas  and 
his  tiny  reindeer  living  and  breathing  realities  io  millions  of 
children  throughout  the  world. 

Embellished,  as  it  iSj  with  the  whimsical  humor  of  Mr.  DensloVf 
inimitable  drawings,  produced  in  colors  by  the  most  beautiful 
printing,  it  will  eclipse  all  other  juvenile  picture  books  of  tho 
year.  A  large  quarto,  handsomely  bound  in  cloth  or  illumin- 
ated board  cover,  $1.50. 

DENSLOW'S  ONE  RING  CIRCUS,  and  Other  Stories, 
containing: 

One  Ring  Circus,      5  Little  Pigs,         ABC  Book, 
Zoo,  Tom  Thumb,         Jack  and  the  Bean-stalk^ 

The  six  bound  in  cloth,  decorative  cover,  $L25. 

DENSLOW'S  HUMPTY  DUMPTY,  and  Other  Storiei, 
containing : 

Humpty  Dumpty  Maiy  had  a  Little  Lamb 

Little  Red  Riding  Hood         Old  Mother  Hubbard 
The  Thme  Bears  House  that  Jack  Built 

The  ax  bound  in  cloth,  decorative  cover,  $1.25. 


)  Cumber- 

ling  hbieri* 

j^'s  DPSt,  Anci 
;<*,  althoufk 
-ordof  ihftt 

iho  romance 
and  one  of 
.  Journal. 
[  the  reader 
iant  or  stir- 
lUustrated, 


—    ^ 


/  ^ 


^// 


y  of  the 

^baum.  Ib 
iken  one  of 
1  War,  and 
•ric  scenes, 
promineni 
twer  of  Um 


5.     (aotll 

Here  is  Um 
i  bom  who 
cholas  and 
millions  of 

DensloVi 
^  beautifui 
oks  of  tho 
>r  illumin- 


Stories, 


tean-stalki 

Storiee, 

Dfib 


